


How I Want to Go

by MKittyUltra



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Angst, Bottom Dean, Fluff and Angst, Hospitalization, Hospitals, Long term illness, M/M, Nurse Dean, Snarky Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-24
Updated: 2016-02-03
Packaged: 2018-04-05 23:39:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 34
Words: 110,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4199463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MKittyUltra/pseuds/MKittyUltra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where Cas has cancer but he isn't telling anyone about it, especially not his gorgeous new boyfriend, Dean Winchester, or his useless but well-meaning brother, Gabe. Anything but resigned, Cas is determined not to let his diagnosis govern his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Wrong Results

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this fic comes from the song 'Collar Full' by 'Panic! at the Disco'.
> 
> Just a quick note to warn you of what lies ahead: This work is very bleak and it goes to some dark places. The subject matter is heavy; Castiel has a type of cancer with a very poor prognosis, and he's previously suffered from severe depression. Most of this fic is told from his point of view, and it's not the most positive and uplifting of perspectives. Issues addressed include attempted suicide, suicidal thoughts, and self-deprecation. It's not all doom and gloom, though, so I hope this doesn't put you off!

**WINTER**

Cas only believed in gods and ghosts at dusk.

If the grass was still frozen in grey streaks from last night’s frost, and the spindly black bronchial forms of the trees were faded to charcoal by winding clouds of mist, he could see dead things rising from the ground at the command of voices from the grey-peach sky. They were spectral impressionist renderings of spectacular summer sunsets, where the colors looked as though someone had tried to hide them with a white wash, but they’d started to bleed through.

The top of the window started out grey and deepened into indigo, encroaching on the yellow smears above the darkening cloud-line just above the horizon. In the pane of glass, he could see a vague ghostly impression of himself, the lights in the room behind him represented in the reflection as light splintered orbs.

The music from this afternoon’s rehearsal was still playing in Castiel’s head but it seemed as far away as the clouds outside. The music belonged in a different world to the hospital waiting room. He was not the front-man there. He was only a patient, waiting in line. That was all.

It was becoming more and more difficult to see the fingers on the branches. In the distance the forest became an inky grey smudge. The mist wound slowly from it, kissing the washed-out-green earth, turning the patch of grass which entertained children hours before into a crystallized garden of ice flowers. In the distance the mist formed ethereal snow, humanoid forms breaching its surface in smoky wisps that soon dissolves, as fast the condensation Cas’ breaths made on the window pane.

“Mr Milton, do you understand what I’m saying to you?” the doctor asked again. Cas turned back to her. She looked too young for her job. He had only been half-listening. He’d switched off at ‘it doesn’t look good’. There was a bird singing a song which was strikingly like the dawn chorus. He wondered if it could tell that darkness wasn’t fading, but bleeding from the ground and from the sky and would soon swallow the narrow strip of day that remained. The mist rose, parting the hedgerow once more from the blurred shapes of the forest. He wondered how he ever saw that grass as green, how he ever believed the sky could be blue. Everything was cast in shades of grey.

“Castiel?” the doctor said.

“It’s Cas,” Cas corrected.

She looked sympathetic. It made him want to shake her. Hard. “Cas,” she began again. “Sometimes myeloma can respond well to treatment. We’ve caught this pretty early on so it’s not as bad as it could have been.”

“Myeloma?” he echoed.

“Yes.”

“What is it?”

The doctor sat up straighter again, looking down at her hands, clasped neatly on her desk. Cas glared at her nail polish with such venom that he half expected the even pink glitter to crumble into ash. “Well, it’s bone marrow cancer.”

“Cancer.” Cas repeated. It made sense, then, the graveness in her voice. Why she’d been tiptoeing around the facts, hedging them in with reassurances that made Cas want to dive into a shallow pool. Cas didn’t have cancer; that would be ridiculous. He was only twenty-four, and he went running on Tuesdays and Thursdays. At least on the weeks when he remembered. He still did a lot of moving around though; he worked up a sweat most nights he had a gig, if not on stage then in bed immediately afterwards. He hardly smoked any pot at all, and he'd curbed his nicotine habit right back to just one or two a day, if that. He didn’t have cancer. Old people got cancer, and people in movies. Not him.

He didn't say any of that out loud, though. He seemed to have forgotten how to speak.

“I’m sorry,” the doctor said quietly.

Cas still couldn't talk. He stared at her blankly for a moment. Her expression was so serious. She looked like she was waiting for the firing squad, which was funny because from where Cas was sitting, it seemed like she was the one with the guns. He opened his mouth to say something, but only laughed. The doctor frowned. “I’ve just been feeling tired,” he finally managed to say. “It’s a mistake.” He raised his arms. “Look at me; I’m fine!”

“I know this is hard to hear-”

“Why are you persisting with this?” Cas asked, still grinning. “You must have mixed up the results.” Cas felt a pang of guilt for the person who was sick and didn’t know, wandering around somewhere thinking all he needed was a couple of days’ rest and some iron tablets.

“It’s not a mistake, Mr Milton.”

“I said you can call me ‘Cas’,” Cas reminded her, irritated now. Why wouldn’t she listen? “Look, the sooner you sort this out, the better. You can let the guy who’s sick know what’s wrong with him right away now I’ve pointed this out. Makes him less likely to sue your ass,” Cas pointed out.

“I’m afraid there’s no mistake,” the doctor told him smoothly.

“Oh yeah?”

“I’m sorry.”

“This is ridiculous,” Cas snapped, getting to his feet, winching as the movement jarred the needle hole in his hip and the low ache across his back.

“Would you sit down?”

“No! I wouldn’t!” he hissed, hand moving instinctively to rub at the pain.

“The pain in your back is caused by an overproduction of the chemical used to erode bone when your body is trying to replace it,” she explained.

“Shut up,” he hissed.

“I know this must be difficult-”

“Like fuck you know,” he spat. He stormed out of the room and back into the waiting room.

Just before last light, the mist began to recede, and the playing field below Cas was an ocean of darkness. The branches of the tree near the window were illuminated in yellow by the storeys below, their bark cast in an appropriately unhealthy looking shade of green. The field extended behind it, its edges were lost in the slowly retreating mist. The clouds were almost dark enough to blur into the forest. Cas was stranded on an island of light amidst a sea of darkness, separated from it only by a thin veil of glass.

“Castiel?” His mother’s voice cut through the mist in his head but it took a moment for him to look away from the field outside. She was still holding the car keys in her hand, her coat hanging open to show a soft grey woollen dress. She smelled like expensive perfume, sprayed to heavily to cover the lingering smell of cigarettes, and it took him back to a bed with Thomas the Tank Engine sheets on it and glow-in-the-dark stickers on the ceiling. “I’m sorry, darling; the traffic was horrendous.”

“It’s okay,” he told her, but he could hear the uncertainty in his voice. He looked back out of the window. It was completely dark. She’d made him miss the moment where the sun disappeared, where that last sliver of iron grey sky dissolved into black.

“I was thinking we could go to that nice Italian that you like. You know, the one with the big pillars and stuff outside.” She clearly hadn’t heard the uncertainty. Cas wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not. He got to his feet, trying not to over think it. “What? Don’t you like it there anymore?” she snapped when he didn’t reply. “Oh, for god’s sake."

Cas trailed a step behind her out to the car. She paused to take off her coat, throwing it over the back seat. She looked over Cas’ outfit, immediately disapproving of the denim jacket, as she always was. Cas said nothing. She got in the car and Cas slumped into the passenger seat, wincing as the movement jarred his injection site. Could you still call it an injection, he wondered, if they were taking stuff out instead of putting it in?

“So, are we going to the Italian, or not?” his mother asked, harried.

“Sure.”

She sighed impatiently. “You know I tried to get here when you told me but I just couldn’t make it.”

“You said the traffic was bad,” he reminded her.

She shot him a dark look. “It was, and I couldn’t get off work as early as I wanted to. I tried, darling, I really did,” she promised hurriedly, her voice growing more empty and exasperated with every word.

“It’s okay,” he repeated, sounding a little more confident than before. It was, at least in that he hadn’t expected anything else from her.

“Don’t be like that, Cas,” she huffed as the pulled out of the parking lot and onto the road. “I’m sorry.”

Cas said nothing.

His hip was aching, in addition to the pain he’s had in his lower back for weeks that’s been getting progressively harder and harder to ignore, and was the reason he’d had to have that stupid test in the first place. He took a breath, trying to relax, but it was difficult in the strangely contorted position that was the only one remotely tolerable. His mother glanced at him and for the first time she looked concerned.

“You look awful,” she told him, her eyes returning to the road. With a quick glance in the rear-view mirror, his mother’s accusation was confirmed.

“I do,” he agreed, pawing at the dark circles under his eyes.

“You don’t look like you’ve slept,” she accused.

“I have.”

“I just worry, in that house. I know you love your brother, but I do wonder if it’s the best place for you,” she said, sourly.

“Mom,” he protested.

“Well, I don’t know, do I?” she hissed. “First time you call me voluntarily in weeks, and you’re asking for a ride back from the hospital. Excuse me for caring about my son.”

Cas sighed. “It was just for tests.”

“You wouldn’t need tests if you hadn’t insisted on moving out.”

“Mom,” he protested again, tiredly. “Can you just take me home?”

“Your actual home or that mad house your brother runs?”

At this point, Castiel no longer cared. “I’m really tired. I just want to go to bed.”

Ten minutes later, they pulled up outside his and Gabriel’s place, his mother’s lips tightly pursed. It wasn’t nearly as bad as she liked to think it was. It was beautiful; a colonial looking thing with a long drive and a porch that cried out for an old couple in rocking chairs to sit out on it. It was more than Cas could have afforded otherwise.

“Darling, you would tell me if something was wrong?” she asked, reaching across the gear stick to put her hand on his.

Cas forced a smile. “Sure,” he promised.

He slammed the door closed and trudged up the garden path. There was only one house key and because Gabriel worked on Wednesdays, Cas was stuck on the porch. Of course, they’d each had a key to begin with, and there was a spare one on top of the fridge. Gabriel lost his first one within a month, and the spare in another two. He’d gone to have more cut but because they were security keys, he needed permission from their landlord. Their landlord being their father. As if Gabriel would contact him voluntarily. Cas banged his fist against the door.

“Cassie!” Gabe cried as he flung the door wide. Now it was open Cas could hear the music so loud he had to wonder how on earth he’d managed not to hear it before. Maybe he’d just gotten used to it. “Where’ve you been, little bro?” He was drunk. Cas looked at his watch. It was barely five o’clock.

“Out.”

“Well, come in, then! We’re having a party!” Gabriel told him, as though that wasn’t evident. Cas smiled anyway and followed him through the hallway and into the living room, which he had decked out with fairy lights and sweaty people as per usual. They were often having a party at his and Gabriel’s house, and Cas rarely knew anyone who attended them. It smelled like pot and unwashed people. By the time Cas reached the kitchen the smell of stale pizza was a relief.

Gabe put a beer in Cas’ hand and talked to him about the people who were filling their house that particular evening. From the sounds of it, the guests this evening shared Gabe’s new dealer. He kept calling the evening a ‘networking event’. That explained a lot. The good thing about Gabriel was that you didn’t need to say anything to have a conversation with him. All Cas had to do was make sure he smiled and nodded in the right places and he was good to go.

After a while, Gabriel got bored of trying to remember people’s names to teach them to Cas, and abandoned him to his beer, which was horrible and didn’t have a label on the bottle. The back garden looked pretty empty, much to Cas’ surprise and relief. He searched around for a couple of minutes to find the pack of cigarettes that he kept hidden in the bread bin.  He flipped the box open and took one out before nestling the pack back underneath the granary loaf. He checked the fruit bowl for his lighter, but that was gone. He sighed. He supposed he could only have so much luck.

There was only one guy outside and, unsurprisingly, Cas didn’t recognize him. He had a smoke hanging out of the side of his mouth with the cherry glowing bright red, so he figured that he’d do to ask for a light. It was cold outside, but not enough that Cas was particularly uncomfortable. “Hey,” he said to the anonymous smoker. He nodded in response. “You got a light?”

He hands one to Cas, and as he lit up, he noticed there was a ‘thank you for not smoking’ sticker wrapped around it. He smiled. “Smooth,” Cas said, and the guy nodded.

“Right?” the guy replied. Cas took a long drag and the smoke made his lungs feel like they were being slightly deflated. He spluttered a little but managed to hold it together. He wondered if perhaps he shouldn’t be smoking given the threat posed by the test he’d just had, but then remembered he didn’t give a shit.

“You going to keep that?” anonymous smoker asked.

Cas had been clutching the lighter tightly in an effort to suppress the urge to choke. “Sorry,” he said, handing it back to him. He shrugged.

“Nah, it’s cool,” he replied. “I’m Dean,” he told him.

“Cas.”

“Cas as in, Castiel?” Dean asked.

Cas turned, eyebrows raised. Dean had very green eyes. “Yes?” he replied, uncertainly.

“Castiel, Angel of the Lord?”

 _Oh, great_ , Cas thought. A fan. Seraphim’s were few and far between, and most of the ones he’d met were completely nuts. Cas had a scar from where this one girl bit him hard enough to lick his blood so that she could ‘keep a part of him with her always’. He got a tetanus jab and had himself tested for rabies. You know. In case.

“I saw you play a few weeks back. Good stuff man,” Dean said. Cas sighed out a cloud of smoke. False alarm – he just had a good memory. Thank god for that. He was smiling brightly.

“So, you know Gabriel?”

Dean shrugged but nodded his head. Apt; everybody knew Gabriel, but not really. It was the parties.

“What about you?” he asked.

“Unfortunately, Gabriel is also an angel of the lord.”

Dean grinned. “Right.”

“A loose interpretation of the word ‘angel’, I know,” Cas shrugged.

Dean laughed. Actually laughed. Cas felt a little sapling of pride burst to life in the pit of his stomach. Dean was wearing a Metallica t-shirt. Not exactly the kind of music Castiel played. Dean was looking off down the garden. He clearly was not interested. Cas tossed his cigarette butt onto the grass, waited a moment to make sure nothing was going to catch fire, then he went back inside.

As he stepped over the threshold, he moved with too much confidence, and the dull ache in his hip spiked to new heights like someone was shoving a needle into his bone all over again. And that wasn't an innuendo. “Fuck,” he hissed, leaning to grab the table, over filled with plastic party cups.

“Hey,” Dean’s voice made Cas try and straighten up to fast, wincing. “It was. Uh. It was nice to meet you.” There was discomfort in his tone, but also something that sounded an awful lot like interest, or possibly concern. Either way, it was enough to make Cas smile and gather himself to his full height. Everything seemed to be spinning just slightly, though there was no way that Cas was drunk yet.

“You okay?” Dean asked, frowning.

Cas shook his said but said, “yeah.”

“You want some whiskey?” Dean asked him, picking up a bottle from the table. Cas couldn’t tell whether he owned it. He nodded anyway. He poured it into two mugs pulled from the second cupboard he looked in. Cas watched, eyebrow raised, not trusting himself to protest.

“You got any gigs booked soon?” Dean asked as he handed Cas a drink. He had a couple of days’ worth of stubble that matched his dark blonde hair. He had fingerless gloves on, pulled up further over his wrists than they were really supposed to be. It made Cas’ hands twitch to the leather bands he wore around his own forearms. Dean smiled, still waiting for Cas to answer. He had a dazzling grin.

“Nah.” He tried not to let the strange feeling in his chest show on his face. Rehearsal earlier that day had been hard. He was exhausted. They had a gig booked for the weekend but Cas was trying to talk Michael, the bassist and self-reportedly ‘the talent’, into cancelling.

“Sucks. How come?” Dean leaned next Cas against the countertop. Some girl came over, wobbling in her heels already, and ended their conversation with her loud beverage assemblage. Dean was looking over at Cas, smiling. Cas smiled back. The girl almost fell and Dean caught her. Cas laughed. Dean smiled more broadly. He leaned back against the counter even more closely. He wasn’t wearing a jacket. Cas stared at the freckles on his arms under the fine covering of blonde hairs.

Cas could feel his eyelids getting heavier as he stood. He put his mug down on the counter behind him before even taking a sip. Dean’s hand grazed Cas’ hip, sparking the pain there, and he gasped. Dean pulled back, offended. Cas looked at him for a long moment. He was awfully pretty. Dean smiled encouragingly. Cas sighed. “I think I’m going to go to bed,” he said.

“Oh,” Dean replied. “Well, I’ll see you round?’ He asked.

Cas managed to smile then. “Sure.”

Dean smiled back. Cas stepped away from the counter top. It seemed successful for three steps. One, two. Three. Then there was a hand on his arm and the floor was much closer than it should have been. Dean was holding him up.

“Too much whiskey?” he asked, heaving Cas to his feet. “You alright?”

Cas steadied himself against the table. “Fine,” he said, but he sounded shaky. He felt like he might puke, all over Dean’s nice jeans. “I’m fine.”

Gabriel appeared in front of Cas’ face as though he’d managed to teleport smack-bang into the center of his field of vision.

“Hey Cassie, can you make it up the stairs?” he asked. Cas glanced to his side; the hand on his arm was still Dean’s. His eyes were wide with concern.

“I’m not sure,” Cas said deviously. Gabriel backed away. Cas met Dean’s gaze again, and he managed a half-hearted wink. Dean fought against a grin and only half succeeded.

“I can-” Gabriel began to offer.

“How many joints?” Cas interrupted.

Gabriel shrugged and giggled. “Fair point, take it away, handsome stranger,” he said, clapping Dean on the back.

Dean shook his head, moving closer to Cas to hold him up more firmly. Cas wondered if it was very bad of him to be considering pulling fainting episodes more often? Not that he’d faked that in the slightest.  

“You’re such a lightweight,” Gabriel criticized.

“I’ve not eaten much,” Cas whispered in disagreement. Gabriel beams, disbelieving. Dean moved so he was taking all of Cas’ weight.

“You didn’t touch that whiskey,” Dean muttered conspiratorially as they reached the bottom of the stairs. Cas should have twisted himself out of his grip, but he was enjoying the feeling of his body pressed against him too much. That, and as much as it pained him to admit it, he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to make up the stairs.

“Which room is yours?” Dean asked when they reached the landing, clearly hopeful it was through the door they were already standing in front of. Cas stood up, wincing.

“Second one along,” he explained.

Dean’s cheeks flushed red. Cas let the door swing open into the room.

“You aren’t drunk, are you?” Dean asked. Cas’ smile faltered just a little and he stepped into the room. Dean followed. When Cas flipped on the light-switch, Dean gave a low whistle as he looked around and assessed the room. 

“Not what I was expecting,” Dean admitted. Ca's room was embarrassingly tidy, all his clothes piled and hung neatly in the open wardrobe, the floor empty and his black-sheeted double bed tidily made. His guitars sat in a line against the wall, their bodies gleaming cleanly. It wasn’t very rock and roll. Cas would have been protesting if he hadn't been so tired, but Dean was grinning anyway so it didn't seem to matter.

Cas sat down heavily on the bed. Suddenly, he was really, really tired. Dean was examining the photographs on his desk, touching the corners of those blue-tacked to the wall. Cas let himself fall onto his side, but forced his eyes to stay open to watch Dean. His hair was dirty blonde and cropped short. He smoothed his hands over it every now and then, keeping it thoroughly mussed.

He turned, surprised at Cas’ position.

“You okay?”

Cas’ eyes closed. “Tired,” he admitted. It was a relief to say it out loud.

Dean cleared his throat. He didn’t look annoyed. “You want me to go?”

He absolutely did not. But he couldn’t summon the energy to tell him. He thought about the effort it would be to peel off Dean’s clothing item by item. Perhaps he could request a strip tease.

“Cas?”

Cas heaved a massive sigh. “Go back downstairs,” he mumbled. Though it was tragic to admit, he wasn’t up for the kinds of escapades he’d want from a night with such a creature. Dean sat down in the computer chair and it creaked. Cas smiled. “Or not.”

“You really don’t seem okay,” Dean pointed out.

“No?”

“No.”

Cas sighed. He rolled onto his back and hissed through his teeth at the pain that caused him. “I’m afraid I’m completely exhausted,” Cas confessed.

Dean laughed. “Oh well,” he sighed. “It was a shit party anyway.”

“Yeah?” Cas asked, yawning.

“Mm,” Dean confirmed. The chair squeaked again, and Cas heard shuffling footsteps. Perhaps Dean was leaving after all. The mattress dipped with weight beside him, and Cas felt a warm hand against the gap between his jeans and his t-shirt.

“I was falling asleep,” Cas warned him.

“It’s fine,” Dean sighed. His breath smelled of whiskey and tobacco and made Cas grin.

“You’re drunk.”

“Yeah?”

Cas chuckled. “Yeah.”

Dean’s fingers slid around, a gentle skating touch. “You’re hot,” he mumbled as though this was a suitable defence.

Cas grinned, opening his eyes a crack to see Dean’s stunning leafy-greens staring right into him. He had his bottom lip caught between his teeth. Cas’ blood pressure shot through the roof and suddenly he didn’t feel so tired anymore. He put a hand on Dean’s cheek.

“I thought you were falling asleep?” he asked, smiling.

“Kiss me,” Cas whispered.

Dean didn’t need telling twice. His mouth was still cold from outside, the bitter-sweetness of his cigarette half-hidden under the mouthful of whiskey he’d stolen in the kitchen. Cas moaned, kissed him deeper, grabbing a fistful of Dean’s t-shirt. “Fuck,” he groaned. With his other hand, he undid Dean’s jeans and shimmied his hand under the waistband of his boxers. Dean gasped enthusiastically, but grabbed Cas’ wrist to stop his advance.

“This is probably a bad idea,” Dean groaned into Cas mouth.

“Oh yeah?”

“You going to pass out on me again?”

Cas growled, kissing Dean harder, leaning over him and hissing in pain as he disturbed his hip. “Fuck.”

Dean chuckled. “I won’t ask.”

“Good.” Cas snapped.

Dean’s roaming hands froze at the bottom of Cas’ rib cage. His eyes were questioning, thoughtful. Cas shook his head.

“I should probably stick around. In case you, you know. Pass out again,” Dean said, a grin creeping back onto his face.

Cas sighed, leaning closer, more careful not to hurt himself again. He smoothed his hands over the cheeks of Dean’s ass, kneading gently. Dean’s hips pressed against Cas’ and he gritted his teeth, but was determined not to let his pain show. Dean moved against Cas’ dick and he dug his nails into his skin. “Mm. Probably a good idea.”

“Uh…”

“Did you come up here just to watch me sleep?” Cas whispered, shifting up so he was peering down at Dean from the pillow. Cas retracted his hands and undid his own jeans, sliding lithely out of them. He couldn’t hold in his sharp intake of breath as he lay back down, though, and Dean pushed himself away, leaning over him on one elbow.

“What happened to your hip?”

Shit. The dressing. Of course. Cas covered the over-sized Band-Aid with his palm. “I… I fell,” he mumbled.

Dean didn’t look convinced. “You fall in another fainting episode?”

“I’m a damsel in distress. Watch me swoon,” Cas said, sweeping his hand across his forehead.

“Right, whatever,” Dean dismissed, but he was grinning. He pressed a kiss to the line of muscle that lead from Cas’ hip down to his dick. Cas shivered. “I’ll watch you swoon, alright,” Dean mumbled hungrily.

Cas bit his lip and tugged a hand through Dean’s hair. Dean drew a long, shuddery breath. “Aw, _Cas,_ ” Dean gasped.

“You like that, huh?” Cas grabbed as much of Dean’s hair as he could and jerked his head back a little. Dean’s eyes widened and for a moment Cas wondered if he’d over stepped the mark.

“Please,” Dean whispered.

Cas chuckled darkly. “Oh, I could have fun with you.”

Dean grinned. “Oh yeah?”

“Oh yeah.”

Dean moved up to kiss him but in his drunkenness slipped and they booped noses instead. Dean giggled and fell onto Cas. Cas yelped.

“Sorry! Sorry,” Dean said quickly, face colored with concern.

“I’m fine,” Cas said, through gritted teeth.

Dean looked deflated. Cas wanted to reach up to him but he couldn’t find it in himself. He was exhausted. It was as much in his head as in his body. His ears were ringing. Dean was beautiful, his collar pulled wonky so it showed his clavicle. Cas covered the Band-Aid on his hip again. They were wrong. They had to be wrong. He didn’t have cancer. That would be ridiculous. Cas’ eyelids felt heavy. “I’m sorry,” Cas whispered.

“Huh?” Dean turned, expression dazed.

Cas shook his head. “Doesn’t matter.”

“You look half asleep.”

Cas smiled. “I think I am.”

Dean lay down next to him, not touching. Cas stared up at the ceiling and listen to Dean breathe. “I’m really drunk,” Dean mumbled.

Cas laughed and let his eyes slide shut. “Yeah?”

“I’m going to lie here for a bit until the room stops spinning.”

Cas turned his head. Dean’s eyes were closed. “Okay,” he mumbled, letting his eyes close again. Maybe he’d wake up tomorrow and it would all have been a nightmare. Not even a nightmare; a freaky surrealist dream. On the edge of sleep Cas thought about his aches, how they drilled deep into him. Over the last few weeks, he’d become intimately familiar with the size and shape of the pain. It reached from the space between his shoulder blades all the way down to just above the new ache in his hip from his bone marrow biopsy. The pains grasped at each other but didn’t quiet merge.

Cas’ breathing slowed and he was on the edge of something high up. The sky was pink and yellow and reached around to the pain between his shoulders and feathers erupted between his fingers and he was soaring through the air, the wind on his face. _Of course,_ he realized. _That’s why it hurts._

 


	2. It's Not Happening

Cas had never noticed how long it took for the kettle to boil before. It was agonising. He felt like he’d been craving this coffee for weeks and the kettle was only just begging to rumble and spew water vapour.

There was a girl asleep on the collapsed sofa behind the dining table, her bare legs dirty with sticky lines of alcohol that had caught the fluff off the corduroy, and the soles of her feet were black with dirt. She slept open mouthed with her hand flung above her head like she was swooning. The room smelled like vomit and there were suspicious looking chunks in the bottom of the sink.

Cas’ back ached. He stirred boiling water into coffee granules that were sitting sadly at the bottom of two mugs, and carried them slowly back upstairs.

Dean was right where Cas left him; on the floor of his bedroom with one pillow shoved awkwardly under his head. When he’d woken up, he’d found Dean sprawled face first on his rug, and he’d forcibly given him the pillow. It was three in the afternoon.

Dean’s jeans were discarded a little way to his right, but he still had his gloves on. Cas crouched down beside him. “Hey, Dean,” he said softly. Dean half-cracked one eye open, bloodshot and red. “Coffee?” Cas offered

“Ugh, um,” Dean grumbled unintelligibly, screwing his eyes shut again. Cas chuckled. Dean moved to sit upright with apparent difficulty, wincing and groaning the whole way. Once semi-vertical, he took the coffee from Cas’ outstretched hand and groaned as soon as the mug touched his lips. The sound was criminal, orgasmic, and Cas drew a sharp breath. Dean took a large gulp of his drink and then looked over to where Cas had slumped back on the edge of his unmade bed. His eyes widened.

“Holy shit.” His voice was gloriously cracked. His gaze flitted to the bed. “You’re Castiel.”

“That’s me,” Cas said, sipping his own drink with a grin. “You were a lot drunker than you were letting on.”

“Did we…”

Cas shook his head. Dean looked a little disappointed, then shrugged. He looked down, saw his jeans were unbuttoned. His boxers were still pulled down to show his ass. “You’re sure?”

Cas laughed. “I’m sure. I was sober.”

Dean frowned, trying hard to recall the night before. “You… fainted?”

Cas pursed his lips. “You swooped in and saved me.”

Dean cracked a smile again. “Instinct.”

“Oh yeah?” Cas asked, arching an eyebrow.

Dean took another gulp of his drink and grimacing, his complexion paling three or four shades at once. “Hang on,” he grumbled, putting his coffee down. He hurried out of the room. A moment later, Cas heard the familiar sound of puke hitting water. _Well,_ he thought. _At least he made it to the bathroom_.

Cas reached to put his coffee down on the floor and swore under his breath, because fuck did that hurt. He grimaced, staying slumped over for a few moments and monitoring his breaths. “You’re being melodramatic,” he mumbled to himself, and forced himself to stand up, gritting his teeth through the pain of it. He strode out confidently into the hall and stood outside of the bathroom door.

“You okay in there?” he called.

“Yeah.” Dean’s forlorn reply echoed in the toilet bowl. “I’m done.”

Cas grinned. “With life, or puking?”

“Ugh. Both,” Dean groaned. On the other side of the door, Cas heard him slump against the wall. “You don’t happen to have a shirt I can borrow?”

“Leaving the house in my clothes? What will the neighbors think?”

“Better than if I walked out covered in puke,” Dean pointed out.

Cas chuckled. “You want to take a shower or something.”

“Well…”

“Well?”

“I think there’s someone passed out in your bath.”

The lock mechanism in the door clicked and the door opened. Dean was holding his t-shirt in his hand. His chest was bare and beautiful despite its slight sheen. There was a tattoo on his chest of a pentagram dazzling with stylized flames. Cas had a sudden and almost overwhelming urge to bite it.

“Warn me before you’re naked,” Cas muttered.

“You going to faint?” Dean snickered.

Cas rolled his eyes. “Shut it, Sir Galahad.” He licked his lips, eyes trailing back and forth across Dean’s well-defined abs, lingering momentarily on his nipples, then sweeping up the gentle slope of his throat up to his jaw. And his lips, Christ. Cas was going to file a complaint. “What were you saying?”

“You were offering me a shower?”

“Right,” Cas nodded, finally managing to tear his gaze up to Dean’s eyes. It was a testament to the rest of him that it could distract Cas from Dean’s eyes, framed so thickly with lashes. He was pretty as _hell._ Cas sure would. Definitely. Dean moved and Cas could smell the sick. Cas grimaced. “In my room, there’s a shower in the on suite.”

“Awh man, you’ve got your own bathroom and I ran all the way out here?” Dean complained with a grin.

Cas rolled his eyes. “Go on. Apparently, I need to clean the bath.”

Dean skulked off.

Gabe’s hand was hung over the edge of the bath. Cas sent an empty vodka bottle skittering across the tiles with his toe. He shook his head. Gabe was wrapped in the shower curtain, its pole snapped and cradled in his arms.

“Hey, Gabriel,” Cas said loudly.

Gabriel moaned wordlessly, clutched the curtain pole tighter, and rolled towards the wall. His shoes screeched against the tub.

“Oh, come on,” Cas sighed. He nudged his brother unenthusiastically, only to illicit another animal cry. “It’s gone three thirty. You should at least, I don’t know. Get out of the bath, maybe?” 

“Ilikethebathgoaway.”

Cas tugged at the curtain pole and Gabe whined, high-pitched and pathetic. When Cas let go it clattered against the wall. This disturbed Gabriel enough to make him open his eyes. “Dude,” he croaked. “What time is it?”

 “I just said. About three thirty.”

Gabriel sobbed dryly. “I only slept for like six hours.”

“You have a bed literally fifteen feet away,” Cas reminded him.

“People are in it, dude,” Gabe said, as though this should have been obvious. His eyes were already closed again.

Cas gave up and went back to his bedroom. The bathroom door was open ajar; probably an invitation. Cas looked at Dean’s shirt abandoned on the floor. He ought to pick it up, dump it in the sink, and step into the shower behind him. Instead, he sat on his computer chair, staring at it.

The shower shut off. Cas heard Dean’s wet footsteps on the tiles. A moment later he emerged, jean’s over his shoulder, boxers clinging to his pert little ass. “Hey,” he said, obviously surprised to find Cas sitting there. The open door had most definitely been an invitation.

Cas beamed, hoping to make up for whatever damage he’d done by turning it down. “Howdy.”

“Are you mocking me?” Dean asked with a lopsided smile. Cas ducked his head. “Because I feel mocked.”

Dean started to pull on his jeans. “Pity,” Cas sighed. Dean rolled his eyes and fastened his belt.  Cas tried not to look too disappointed. “Shirts in the top drawer, if you _really_ want,” he offered.

“Thanks.” Dean bent over with theatrical slowness, arching his back deliberately. Cas wanted to get up and spank it, but maybe his enthusiasm for hair pulling had only been in the heat of the moment. Cas didn’t want to overstep. He bit down on his bottom lip and knotted his fingers together. Dean turns around with one of Cas’ favorite shirts in hand – blue and worn soft with age. It was a little too small for Dean and clung to his muscles. Cas gawped.

“You can borrow my stuff anytime.”

Dean chuckled. “Thanks. And, erm, thanks for letting me crash on your floor.”

“Next time you can sleep in the bed, if you’re really good,” Cas said.

Dean froze. Cas had done that thing again, the thing Gabe said scared people off. What was it that Gabe had said, exactly? Oh, yes; Castiel often engineered these horrendous little make or break moments when the atmosphere was totally inappropriate, to cock-block himself out of repressed masochism.

Dean turned to Cas with a sultry smirk. “Yeah. And maybe next time I won’t make such a dick out of myself and puke down my t-shirt.” He dropped his gaze to the floor. Cas couldn’t tell if that was good or bad until Dean looked up at him again with a smile. “I… I should probably go.” Cas felt himself pout without meaning too and Dean laughed. “I have a shift at five and I need clean pants.”

“A shift?”

“Some of us have real jobs, you know,” Dean teased, stepping into his shoes.

“So… I’m thinking… mechanic? Firefighter?”

“You got an overalls kink or something?” Dean laughed. “Not even close.”

“Um… primary school teacher?” Cas asked.

“With a shift at five pm?” Dean pointed out, shaking his head. “You’d make a terrible detective.”

“Don’t you think I’d look sexy in a trench coat?”

“Dude, you’d look sexy in a bin bag.” Dean said.

Cas spluttered. “I didn’t realize axe murderers worked in shifts.”

“What can I say? Punctuality; it’s my Achilles heel.” Dean waggled his eyebrows. He secured the laces on his sneakers and Cas watched, envious. He could remember, distantly, the days where tightening his shoe laces had been that easy. “Nah, I’m pulling your leg. I work in the emergency room.”

“What, like a paramedic?”

Dean shook his head. “Nurse.”

Well, if that wasn’t going to put fantasies in Cas’ head he didn’t know what would. Cas gulped; his mouth gone dry. Dean was beaming triumphantly.

“What’s the matter, Castiel? Needles make you woozy?”

Cas smiled weakly. His hip throbbed as though it had heard him. “Sometimes.”

Dean smiled back devilishly. “Don’t worry, I’ll hold your hand when it goes in.”

“Christ,” Cas muttered, shaking his head. He chewed the inside of his lip. “So, doc; you often wake up in the early afternoon when you’ve got a shift in the evening?”

Dean heaved a sigh, scratching the back of his neck. “My sleeping pattern’s pretty shot. It’s all the night shifts.”

“And the parties?” Cas pressed, eyebrow raised.

“Wild, wild parties,” Dean confirmed. “Seriously, though; I do not sleep at normal human times any more. These shifts are killing me.”

“So, with all of these crazy shifts, when will I get to see you again?” Cas pulled a bit of his hair and made a show of twirling it around his finger, looking up at Dean through his eyelashes. Dean looked stuck for words, frozen with his hand still lifted behind his head, his mouth slightly open, begging to be kissed. Then he cleared his throat, shoving his hands into his pockets and shifting his weight side to side.

“What is this, a chick flick?” Dean asked.

Cas frowned. “What?”

Dean shook his head, cheeks coloring. “Never mind.”

“If you don’t want, I mean... That’s-”

“Tonight?” Dean interrupted.

Cas blinked at him. “Yeah.”

“Oh shit, wait, I’m going to a bar with a bunch of people from work. Fuck. I can do tomorrow?”

“Tonight is good,” Cas said with a nod, shoving the pain in his shoulders to the back of his mind. “What bar?”

“Um. Roadhouse? You know it?”

Cas had played a gig there way back. He nodded his head. Dean was smiling as though he already knew. Maybe he’d not been as innocent in his knowledge of Cas’ band life as he’d implied the night before. Perhaps the vodka was shortening his memory. Or maybe he was being coy to get into Cas’ pants. That kind of thing usually upset him but with Dean he was prepared to make an exception. He couldn’t stop his gaze from flickering to the crazy-girl scar on his arm, though.

Dean cleared his throat. He looked like he was waiting for the firing squad.

“Sounds good,” Cas told him.

“Really?” he asked, his voice brighter.

“Yeah,” Cas grinned. “What time?”

Cas’ phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out. The number wasn’t saved but he recognized it as being the hospital. He hung up.

“Who was that?” Dean asked.

“Nobody important,” Cas answered quickly.

Dean looked hedgy. “You still coming out?”

Cas smiled. “Of course. Give me a time, and I’ll be there.”

Dean grinned. He looked fabulous when he grinned. It filled Cas up with butterflies; the good kind like you’re about to kiss someone pretty, not the kind like you’re going to pass out. There was, admittedly, some overlap.

“We get off at eight thirty, so you could swing by the ER at nine?”

“Sounds good to me.”

Dean looked at Cas intently, his eyes sparkling bright and enthusiastic. For a moment, it seemed like they were going to kiss, and then Cas’ phone buzzed again. He shut it off without looking, and sighed. “You know it’s almost four, right?” he asked Dean.

“Shit!” he gasped. “See you at nine. I’ll give you back your shirt,” he said with a wink.

“Looks better on you.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Be there.”

“Go!” Cas barked with a laugh.

Dean grinned and disappeared through the doorway, pulling the door behind him but not all the way shut. As he started to thunder down the stairs, it started to swing open again. the front door opened and closed with a bang. Cas winced. There were people moving around the house. He could hear them on the floors, talking loud with croaky hang over voices. Why was the door so far from his chair? Whose genius idea was it to make the room so large that he had to get up and walk all the way across it just so he could have some quiet? The bed was too far away, too. He could get a couple of hours more sleep and still have plenty of time to shower and be ready for Dean.

How the hell was he this tired when he slept almost sixteen hours? It didn’t seem humanly possible. His phone buzzed again. He answered it.

“Mr Milton?”

“Speaking,” he answered gruffly.

“It’s Dr Moore. We spoke yesterday?” She paused, waiting for Cas to respond. He didn’t “We checked your results like you requested.”

She didn’t sound relieved. She wasn’t bowling into apologies. How much could you tell in a phone call, though? Could she tell he was shit scared?

“Mr Milton, are you still there?”

“Yes.”

A pause. “I’m really sorry, Mr Milton.”

“You mixed up my results?” he asked hopefully.

He heard her drew a breath. “No. We didn’t.”

Cas was silent, waiting.

“I don’t normally do this over the phone,” Dr Moore squeaked apologetically.

Cas’ heart felt huge inside of him. He looked down at his hands. “Right.”

“I’m really sorry.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll schedule an appointment to-”

“Shut up a minute,” Cas hissed. He had one hand held out as if in surrender. His fingers were shaking. The butterflies were back. They weren’t the about-to-get-kissed-kind or the about-to-pass-out kind. They were all wrong. Huge mutant beasts tearing up his insides.

“Mr Milton?”

“Sorry. I’m sorry,” he said. His voice was so calm that it sounded entirely featureless. “Shit.” His eyes stung. His whole body was shaking.

“Is there someone you can call?” she asked. At least she sounded genuinely concerned.

“Someone… I can call?”

“So you’re not on your own,” she explained gently, in an I’ve-read-your-case-notes kind of a way, an I-know-why-you-wear-those-wristbands kind of way. “Are you still there, Cas?”

“Yeah,” he croaked.

“I’ve scheduled an appointment for you on Monday morning and we can talk about treatment options then, okay?”

“I’m in a band.”

Dr Moore shifted uncomfortably on the other end of the line. “Yeah? Maybe you could go hang out with them for a little while. Try not to overexert yourself.”

“Overexert,” Cas repeated.

“That’s right. Okay. I’ll speak to you on Monday, Cas, alright?” Her voice was softer than it had been before.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, uselessly.

“It’s alright, Cas,” she promised him. “Goodbye for now.”

“Bye,” he croaked, and then she hung up.

He stared at the blank screen of his phone in his shaking hand, vision blurring slowly. He blinked and it cleared, hot streams of tears wet down his cheeks. They dripped down onto his jeans.

“Hey, Cassie,” Gabe said from the doorway. “Got any socks I can borrow?”

Cas looked up, angrily rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. “Yeah. Top drawer.”

“Thanks baby bro,” Gabe mumbled, shuffling into the room. He stopped when he was level with Cas, eyes darting from his phone to his face. “Shit, that bastard didn’t call you again did he?”

Cas laughed tearfully and shook his head. “Everything’s fine. I’m just being stupid.”

Gabe smiled. “Alright. Let me know if you need me to beat someone up, though. I know a guy.”

Cas slumped forward out of his chair when Gabe left, curling on his side. He was still clutching his phone. He pressed his eyes shut. _This isn’t happening. It’s a dream. It’s not real._

He unlocked his phone and opened a browser. He typed the word Dr Moore had said the day before. Myeloma. He hovered his finger over the search button as suggestions unfurled beneath it. He locked the phone and sent it clattering across the floor. He closed his eyes again.


	3. Deal Breaker

There was a knock on his door. “Cassie?” Gabe sounded concerned.

Cas heaved himself upright. He must have fallen asleep. It was dark outside his window. “Hmm?”

“Some kid was just on the phone for you downstairs. Dean Winchester?”

Cas’ mind took a few moments to catch up with what he was hearing. He looked at the darkness beyond his curtains. “Shit. What time is it?”

“Erm. Nine thirty?”

“Oh fuck,” Cas said, clambering to his feet too fast.

He was on the floor again and his chest hurt and Gabriel was crouching next to him. “Hey, Cassie, you okay?”

“Yeah,” he groaned, forcing himself up, shoulders pounding, chest heaving. “Just stood up too fast.”

Gabe rolled his eyes. “You fuckwit.”

“I was supposed to be meeting him for drinks at nine,” Cas explained, slowly, carefully hoisting himself upright, using the computer chair as an unsteady support. _Oh, Jesus fucking Christ my hip, my back,_ Cas bit back the words, swaying slightly. “I’m alright,” he said, to try and convince himself. It didn’t work. “I’m fine.”

“You need a ride?”

“That’d be great,” Cas sighed.

Gabe frowned, looking his brother up and down. “You might want to shower. You look kind of, uh, sweaty.”

Cas glanced down. His t-shirt was damp in patches and his arms were shiny too. He felt gross and sticky and too hot all over. “Right. Can you call him and let him know I’m not leaving him at the altar?”

“Sure thing. Go wash, lover boy.”

The hot water did nothing for the pain in Cas’ back. He grappled with the pros and cons of taking pain killers. He couldn’t risk not drinking; that would draw unnecessary attention, so instead he tries to figure out how drunk he could be when he turned out without Dean thinking less of him.

It hurt to lift his hands above his head to wash his hair and he whimpered, thankful for the gush of the shower stream to camouflage the sound. He sobbed quietly, pretending to himself that he wasn’t crying, that he just had soap in his eyes, and then realised he’d already left Dean waiting and he needed to get his shit together or he was going to blow it. He shut of the water and grabbed his towel, drying himself as hastily and thoroughly as he could manage. It almost brought a smile to his face when he realised he’d probably used the same towel that Dean had that morning.

Back in his room, Cas dug through his drawers as quickly as he could manage, eventually settling on a dark grey shirt. He buttoned it in front of the mirror. He snorted. He looked like bar staff. He rolled up his sleeves, shaking moisture out from the leather bands he wore piled up to his elbows. His hair was wet on the back of his neck and would dry in all manner, of directions but he absolutely had no time to fix it. He yanked on a pair of jeans and fastened them quick.

“Wow, someone’s eager,” Gabe said, leaning against the door frame, loudly crunching M&Ms. “You look like you haven’t slept.”

Cas laughed wryly. “Yeah, well. You know how it is.”

“I got some uppers in my sock drawer, if you need a pick-me-up.”

“Ah, Gabriel. Amphetamines in your sock drawer but no socks.” Cas shook his head.

“Offer’s still on the table,” Gabe said, shrugged and sloping out of the room.

The doorbell rang, echoing through the house. Cas stepped into his DMs but didn’t fasten them. Balthazar was waiting on the porch, hands on his hips, one eyebrow raised. “I heard you needed a ride.”

“Oh, Christ. I thought Gabe was taking me.”

Balthazar snorted. “He’s off his tits.”

“Yeah, well. I thought _you_ were dead.”

Balthazar grinned and put a hand on Cas’ shoulder. “Stop being so melodramatic. It’s only been a week.”

Cas laughed. “I mourned you!”

“You ready to go?”

“Uh-huh,” Cas said, looking down at himself to make sure he’d not forgotten anything important, like shoes. Or pants.

“You look like shit. Are you stoned?”

Cas rolled his eyes. “Generally, yeah.”

Balthazar shook his head. “Success has changed you.”

“Success?” Cas scoffed. They were getting regular gigs, sure, but they’d not had so much as a sniff of interest from any record companies. He felt his back pocket to make sure he had his wallet. It was nestled there safely, along with his phone.

 Balthazar jangled his car keys. “Let’s go. You got your ID?”

Cas laughed, but Balthazar was watching him intently, obviously waiting for a response. “It’s in my wallet.” He stepped out onto the porch and locked the door.

They got into Balthazar’s car. “Seat belt,” Balthazar reminded him.

“Christ, Baz, you’re better at being my mom than my mom is.”

Balthazar chuckled. “That’s not saying much though, is it?”

“I suppose not.”

Baz backed out onto the street. It was already properly dark, orange pools of light pouring from the streetlamps and sapping the colour out of everything. Cas squirmed uncomfortably in his seat. He’d forgotten to take Gabe up on his offer, and he’d not had chance to swig any alcohol on his way out, either. He opened Balthazar’s glove compartment, but it was stuffed with paper.

“Looking for something, Cassie dear?”

Cas sighed. “Nothing in particular.”

Balthazar gave him a sideways glance. They had met when Seraphim was just a high school band, when Cas’ hair was down to his shoulder blades and dyed jet black over dirty brown-blonde. He’d been Cas’ first. “I mean this in the nicest possible way, Cas. But you really do look like shit.”

Cas closed his eyes. “I know.”

“Did you go for them tests yesterday?”

Cas opened his eyes and peered at Balthazar. He had his eyes fixed on the road. Cas couldn’t even remember telling him about the tests, but then, there were a lot of holes in his memory. He sniggered at the innuendo, but his amusement faded quickly when Balthazar peered over at him again. He looked concerned. Cas back throbbed more loudly and he hissed a breath through his teeth. Balthazar turned back to the road with a minute shake of his head.

“You never asked me where you were giving me a lift to,” Cas realised.

Balthazar grinned. “That bad, huh?”

Cas’ insides squirmed. The mutant butterflies were back. He was worried for a moment that he might throw up, but all that happened was that the corners of his vision went glittery. He took a deep breath. “Yeah. Something like that.”

“You going to be alright going out?”

“Jeez, Baz, I’m twenty-four not eighty-four.”

“I know. But you fell off the floor not twenty minutes ago and you look like you’ve spent the night in a drug den up to your elbows in pretty boys, but something tells me all you’ve been doing is lying on your rug, fast asleep, like that’s a completely normal thing to do.”

“I really wish you and Gabe wouldn’t talk about me behind my back,” Cas muttered, leaning against the window.

“Wouldn’t have to if you’d call me once in a while, dear,” Balthazar sighed. They pulled up outside the roadhouse and Cas smiled, shaking his head.

“What do you want from me, Baz?” Cas asked. the car was silent without the growl of the engine.

Balthazar shook his head. “Nothing.”

Cas sighed. He believed him. “I’m fine,” Cas insisted.

Balthazar shrugged. “Did I claim to know otherwise?”

Cas narrowed his eyes at him. Balthazar meant well. “I guess not.”

“You know you can always call me if you need me, right?”

Cas snorted. “Fuck off, Balthazar.”

“Ooh! Full name. I must have been naughty.”

Cas opened the door and slowly climbed out of the car. “Go away. I have a date you’re going to scare off.”

“Call me if it goes badly!” Balthazar called as Cas slammed the door, engine roaring back into life. He waved goodbye with a gleeful grin and pulled away.

“Right,” Cas muttered to his back. “You behave for twelve solid hours, you hear? Twelve hours, and I’m all yours.” His back continued to throb at a barely tolerable level. Cas smoothed his palm over his shirt where it covered the Band-Aid on his hip, and took a deep breath. “I’m taking that as an agreement,” he hissed.

Dean spotted him through the window. He was wearing a plaid shirt. He smiled, beautiful, and sprang up from his chair. Cas grinned back as he jogged around to meet him at the door. “Evening,” Dean said smoothly. He rocked on his heels, hands in his pockets.

“Sorry I’m late. I fell asleep,” Cas admitted sheepishly.

“Don’t worry about it,” Dean shrugged. Did Cas imagine the glimmer of concern in Dean’s eyes? It was hard to tell, what with him smiling like that. Dean had a faint dusting of freckles across his nose that were highlighted by the glare from the lamps that lit the door sign. It caught in his eyes, made them sparkle. He held out a hand towards Cas and he took it as though it were a torpedo buoy thrown out to save him from drowning. Dean’s hand was warm and soft against Cas’. Cas hoped his palms weren’t sweaty. If they were, Dean didn’t complain.

Cas shifted uncomfortably and played with the hem of his shirt with his free hand, looking down at his still unfastened boots, lights reflected in the toe caps. Dean was a little taller than Cas was, he realised. It was only a few inches but it would make the difference between a good kiss and a delectable one. Cas ran his tongue across his bottom lip. The hand-holding felt like a declaration of intent. That thought alone put a blush on Cas’ cheeks and he berated himself. He was behaving like a frightened teenager.

Dean gave Cas’ fingers a squeeze. He looked Cas up and down, slowly and gratuitously checking him out. Would being sick make him look different? Would it change the way guys like Dean looked at him? Cas shuddered, grip on Dean’s hand tightening. Dean smiled. “Come on. I’ll introduce you to the team.”

Dean’s friends were crowded around a large table near the front window of the bar. It was a scrubbed up, commercial looking place, but the old wood furnishings gave it an air of classic charm. Cas hadn’t noticed that about it when he’d come before. He’d been going through a rough patch at the time. He hadn’t noticed many things at all.

The group quieted as Dean approached, fingers pointing and heading turning around to assess the new comer. Cas hoped that his brother and Balthazar had been exaggerating about how terrible he looked. He smoothed his hair down with a nervous smile.

“Guys this is Cas. Cas, guys,” Dean announced, gesturing at the group. There were seven of them all together, including Dean, who pulled a chair out and gestured for Cas to sit in it. Dean sat next to him, dragging his chair closer with a creak against the floor.

“That was the worst introduction I’ve ever heard,” said the red head across the table. She was drinking a bright blue cocktail in a tall glass, the pink umbrella handing jauntily over the edge of it was almost the same vibrant shade as her lipstick.

“Well, Charlie, what can I say? You need no introductions,” Dean told her with a wink.

“You could have warned me, Dean, honestly,” said the girl sat next to Charlie. She combed her fingers through her long blonde hair. “Jo,” she introduced herself with a nod.

“Warned you what, Joanna Beth?”

“Ich.” Jo shuddered. “Don’t call me that. You’re giving me flashbacks to my childhood.”

Dean chuckled. “Sorry.”

Jo rolled her eyes and took a sip of her wine. “When you said you were bringing a date, I didn’t think it was going to be _him_.”

“Play nice, Jo-Jo,” Charlie warned. She leaned across the table and covered her mouth with her hand. “She has pretty sharp claws when she needs them, watch out,” she warned in a stage whisper.

“Oh, fuck of,” Jo dismissed. “You’re Castiel, right? The lead singer from that band. What is it?”

“Seraphims,” Cas answered, quietly.

“He speaks!” Charlie cheered.

“He speaks like he sings, dear lord have mercy,” Jo whispered, draining her glass. She looked down the table. “I think it’s my round,” she said, getting to her feet.

“I think Jo’s a bit of a fan,” Charlie explained with a shrug.

“Shut up. What you drinking Cas?” Jo asked with a wry smile.

“Ah. Vodka and diet coke.”

“Diet? You watching your figure?” Jo scoffed.

Cas shrugged. “I like the taste.”

“I’ll bet,” Dean mumbled quietly.

Charlie guffawed. “Boys! TMI!”

“Definite TMI.”

The three at the end of the table turned in to face them then. “TMI?” one of them said.

“Kevin, Garth and Benny,” Charlie told Cas, pointing at each of them in turn. “Benny and Jo are EMTs. Garth and Kevin are anaesthetists, like me,” Charlie explained. “Dean’s on the lowest pay grade, so get out whilst you can.”

“Shut up,” Dean laughed, shaking his head. “I’ll be a qualified EMT in June,” Dean explained with a shrug.

“So you are a paramedic,” Cas said with a knowing arch of his eyebrows.

“Not yet,” Dean corrected, tilting the neck of his beer in Cas’ direction. “And that wasn’t one of your guesses, either.”

Cas frowned. “Was too.”

“Only after you’d been given the show-stopping clue of where it is I actually work,” Dean reminded him, taking a swig of his drink.

Jo returned with a tray full of drinks and slid them down the table to their appropriate owners. Cas caught his cool glass between his palms. “Thanks,” he told her with a smile.

“No problem.” She sat back down opposite him. “Man, you are much prettier up close.”

Cas spluttered on his mouthful of vodka and coke. “Yeah?”

“Oh, he so knows it,” Charlie whispered.

Cas rolled his eyes and drank more. He felt Dean’s hand brush along the outside of his thigh and smiled. Dean was watching him carefully, with his steady green gaze. His blonde hair had been meticulously styled. Cas wanted to rake his hands through it again and again, muss it up good and proper, and then hear him scream his name for good measure.

“They’re stealing you from me,” he teased, pressing his palm to Cas’ good hip. Cas smiled.

“Never,” he whispered conspiratorially.

“What was that?” Jo asked.

“None of your business, beeswax,” Dean snapped.

“Hey, that’s my beer your drinking, ain’t it? So, it’s my business if I say it is.” She took a large gulp of wine as punctuation. “And what the hell kind of insult is beeswax?”

“God knows,” Dean muttered, grinning. The chatter continued like that, rounds working their way through the circle until it landed back on Jo again and she announced that hers should be their last. Dean had kept his hand on Cas’ side all night, fingers patient, smiles indulgent.

Cas slid his hand around to cover Dean’s. He traced the lines of his fingers, brushing his thumb over his knuckles with care. Slowly, he pressed Dean’s fingertips into his thigh, then moved his own fingers just a few millimetres to the side into the spaces between them. At a careful and deliberate pace, Cas forced Dean’s fingers to splay until he reached all the way down to his palm, and he clutched it. Dean stared down at their joined hands. He wasn’t smiling, exactly. The look in his eye was charmingly like desperation. Cas raised an eyebrow.

“Shall we smoke?” Cas asked, keeping his voice low so that only Dean would hear. Dean’s gaze flickered up, his attention desperate.

“Sure,” Dean agreed. He turned to his friends. “Just going to smoke,” he announced. They barely seemed to notice.

Dean led Cas through the bar out onto a little patio out the back. There were railings, strings of fairy lights wrapped around them. Dean dropped Cas’ hand and started fumbling around in his pockets. Cas found his pack first, put one in his mouth, then leaned across to press one into Dean’s. He swiped his thumb over Dean’s bottom lip and his eyes went wide. “Thanks,” he mumbled.

“It’s fine,” Cas shrugged, lighting up. He pocketed the lighter. Dean looked at him questioningly. “C’mere,” Cas beckoned, opening one arm as if offering Dean a hug. Dean stepped closer, leaning in. Cas touched the tips of their cigarettes together. Dean puffed until his own was lit too. Cas smiled and flicked ash onto the decking. Dean didn’t step away.

“So, uh,” Dean began with a shrug. “Not really sure where I was going with that, to be honest.”

Cas smiled. “Your friends seem nice.”

“Yeah?” Dean asked, smiling. “Jo’s seen you play a few times…” Dean broke off with a laugh. “Shit. Sorry. You must get sick of that.”

“Of what?”

“People talking about your band like it’s you,” Dean shrugged.

Cas shook his head. “Don’t meet people who are interested that often,” he admitted.

“I think you’re pretty good.”

“Only pretty good?”

“Yeah. I mean, when I saw you play it cost me five dollars. I could have bought a beer with that money. I want to be blown away,” Dean said.

“Oh you want to be blown, do you?” Cas said, blowing a narrow stream of smoke up towards the clouds. It dissipated fast. “I’m afraid you only get that sort of thing with a backstage pass.”

“There’s stages now?” Dean asked. “You’ve gone up-market from the last gig I saw.”

Cas chuckled. “Alright, smart ass.” Cas’ words trembled as he shivered.

“You cold?” Dean asked, stepping closer. Cas could feel the heat coming off him. He nodded and stepped even closer, his feet planted between Dean’s. He looked up at him, questioning. Dean cleared his throat. Cas ducked his head to hide an amused smile. Cas tossed his cigarette butt on the ground. “You got through that fast.”

“I needed it,” Cas admitted, shivering again. Dean’s hand lifted instinctively and rubbed his arm.

“You okay? Not going to faint or something?”

“Hmm,” Cas considered. “Not unless I can get something good out of it.”

“Oh yeah? And what might that be?” Dean asked.

Cas put his hand on Dean’s hip, turned his face up so their eyes met. Dean looked worried, excited. Cas couldn’t tell which. He traced the outline of Dean’s lips.  Dean’s breath hitched. “What are you doing?”

“Mapping,” Cas answered, and then rolled forwards onto the balls of his feet, Dean’s body a long, hot line against his, touching from the thighs up. He paused with his mouth just an inch over Dean’s, tasting the beer and the smoke in his breaths as he near-panted, his lips parted, waiting desperate for Cas to close that one last distance.

“Cas,” Dean breathed, his hands on the small of Cas’ back. “Please,” he begged.

Cas closed his eyes, tongue darting across his lips, and stole whatever else Dean had been going to say with his lips, if Dean had been intending on saying anything else at all. Cas trailed his hand up to press against Dean’s chest, the other one curled around into the hair at the base of his skull, fingers teasing gently against his scalp. In a hot rush of tongues and gasps, Dean pulled Cas closer, his hands roaming further up until they were pressed right against the ache between his shoulders.

Cas froze, grip on Dean’s clothes and hair going lax. It took Dean a moment to register what had happened and release Cas’ mouth from his. When they broke apart, Cas dropped his head down onto Dean’s shoulder, clenching his teeth. “Oh, fucking hell,” he groaned.

“Did I do something wrong?” Dean asked, brokenly.

Cas pulled away from him, keeping one hand on Dean’s arm. “No, you didn’t do anything wrong,” Cas sighed. He shook his head.

“You alright?” Dean looked all concerned and adorable. The stab of guilt in Cas’ stomach did nothing for the pain in his back.

“Yeah.” He took a deep breath. “I… I should go home.”

“Oh?”

When Cas looked up at him again Dean’s eyes were wide and tracked on the floor. “I had a really good night, though.”

Dean screwed his face up. “Was I that bad?”

“What?” Cas demanded. Dean didn’t respond. “I’m sorry.”

“No. It’s fine,” Dean huffed.

Cas looked over him, with his shoulders slumped, arms wrapped protectively around his chest. He kissed him again, slower, more controlled. Dean grabbed a fistful of Cas’ shirt, right at the front of his collar like he was afraid to put his hands anywhere else. Cas smiled against his lips and they pulled apart again.

“I’ve got to go,” Cas sighed.

“You could come stay?” Dean suggested meekly.

Cas laughed. “No, I should call a cab.”

Dean sighed and brushed his knuckles tenderly across Cas’ cheek. “Okay.”

Cas smiled. “See you round?”

“See you round.”


	4. Punk Rock Sweaters

Cas crept down the stairs to Michael’s basement, carrying his guitar in his hands instead of slung over his shoulder to avoid it knocking into his back. Ironically, he felt the best he had in months. The narcotics he’d been given on Monday had almost completely banished the ache in his spine. He’d been walking around like there were clouds under his shoes until that morning. When Dr Moore said they would have to start chemotherapy soon, he’d thought he’d at least have a month or two. What he had was less than two days. The freshly placed tubes under his numbed skin made it all seem too real.

He stopped outside the door to their rehearsal room. When they’d been in high school, it had still been Michael’s dad’s rec room, but it had long since been thoroughly marked as their territory. Gabe kept trying to move practice to their place, now they had one. It did seem to make more sense. Michael disagreed, but couldn’t ever really specify why.

Cas took a moment to fix a careful smirk onto his face. He could still smell the hospital under his nose and feel the prod of latex-gloved fingers against his chest. There were still a good few square inches of his right pectoral muscle that he couldn’t feel. He took a deep breath and it hurt. He wished it hadn’t. He wanted to clear his head, to leave the hospital at the door. The tubes in his chest were going to make that impossible. He wished they could have waited. He wished it wasn’t hard.

He pushed the door open.

“I just think it sounds better without the drum fillers is all I’m saying,” Michael said, drumming his fingers on the body of his bass.

“Well yeah, but that’s because the fillers balance out the bass line, and you like being the centre of attention,” Gabe jibed.

“If that was true I’d be playing guitar and singing, and turning up late to rehearsals three days before the biggest gig we’ve had in months.” Michael looked up at Cas.

Cas at down on the beaten-up couch in the corner, placing his guitar over his knee. “I’m not that late.”

“Late enough,” Michael huffed, giving Cas a cursory glance with his watery gaze.

“Sorry. I got caught up.”

He fiddled with the tuning on his guitar, stealing a glance at himself. He could see the outline of the tubes. Would they notice them? Cas gulped and peered around, but he couldn’t meet either of their gazes. He ducked his head to the guitar again.

“So for Friday,” Michael began. “I thought we could open with ‘Ay Men’, then ‘Dog Fish’ and ‘Dream Punk’ if the slot’s long enough, or just ‘Shut Up and Take It’ if not. What do you think?” He looked directly at Cas; Gabe’s opinion had already been noted and rejected, clearly. Michael was a dick, but he was an organised one.

Cas shrugged. He couldn’t risk trying to speak. He was scared his voice would tremble and give him away.

Michael tutted. “Could you at least pretend to give a shit?”

Cas didn’t rise to the bait. He wasn’t sure he could manage it even if he’d wanted to. Luckily, Gabe decided to rise to it for him. “He’s all loved up,” he announced in a sing-song voice.

“What?”

“He’s met a boy, haven’t you, Cassie dear?”

He hadn’t seen Dean since their cut-short Friday night date the week before, but they had been exchanging texts which, whilst conservative, seemed to suggest that Dean was up for getting between Cas’ sheets.

“Do I know him?” Michael asked.

“Doubt it. He’s a nurse in the ER, but he’s training to be an EMT.”

Gabe whistled. “Somebody’s done their research.”

Cas rolled his eyes. “Come on, let’s play.”

They ran through their set a few times. Between the songs, Gabe and Michael exchanged bites of conversations that Cas couldn’t keep up with. His ability to process information seemed to have slowed a couple of knots. The others must have noticed, but they didn’t comment. They were probably assuming that he was high. He was, sort of. But also, sore. And shit scared. 

Half way along during the walk home Cas slowed to a halt and leaned against someone’s low garden wall. He was tired; his knees were shaking. Gabe hovered awkwardly, looking everywhere but Cas’ direction.

“You okay?”

“Tired,” Cas told him. It was the truth. It was nice to tell someone the truth. It made him wonder if maybe, _maybe_ he should tell Gabe what was going on. How could he phrase that sentence? How could he ever get the words to leave his mouth?

Gabe was staring at him with a mix of concern and confusion. Knowing the truth would hurt him, Cas concluded. Gabe would be too upset, and that would mean Cas had to deal with it. He didn’t want to deal with it. He wanted it to stop happening. That was the crux of it, really; telling Gabe would make it real.

“Do you… uh…’ Gabe never found a way to end that sentence.

Cas sighed.

“You going to actually play the gig on Friday?”

“Yes.” Cas answered too quickly.

Gabe narrowed his eyes. “Not going to be too tired?”

“Fuck off, Gabriel.” Cas stood up and carried on walking.

Gabe was quiet for a moment, staring down at his shoes. “Do you mind if I have a party Thursday?” he asked.

Cas shuddered. Thursday was when it was all going to start. Reflexively he ran a hand through his hair. He hadn’t summoned the courage to ask anyone if he was going to lose it. It was likely that someone had already told him, but he was making specific effort not to listen to anything anyone was telling him in the way of advice. He rummaged in his pockets and pulled out his box of cigarettes, fumbling with the lid for a moment before successfully getting it open. Gabe lit him up obligingly.

“You don’t normally ask,” Cas muttered.

“Huh?”

“About parties.”

Gabe looked sheepish again. He scratched the side of his neck. “Yeah. I’m sorry.”

Cas shook his head. “Whatever.”

“So, uh,” Gabe swayed onto his heels. “This guy, huh?”

Cas smirked, for real that time. “Yep.”

“Things all going well there?” Gabe waggled his eyebrows.

“Fine and dandy,” Cas replied with a grin. “We’re meeting for coffee.”

“Coffee? Wow,” Gabe said sourly.

Cas laughed and it sent shooting pains through his torso. “I know.”

“Get in there, bro.”

“I fully intend to.”

They walked the rest of the way home in fairly comfortable silence. Cas’ clothes were still strewn across his floor. He’d forgotten. They’d told him to wear something comfortable to the hospital. What the hell did that mean? First he’d put on a shirt, because, you know, they were putting the thing in his chest, right? It would make sense to have a shirt. Then he decided to go with a worn out grey t-shirt in case he puked or something, but wearing that reminded him of hangovers and days spent on the couch with the flu, and he couldn’t stand it. He tracked through every item in his wardrobe, throwing them all around him as he went, and eventually went with the shirt he’d put on in the first place. It was a good job too because even though they’d made him take it off for the procedure, he didn’t think he would manage to get his arm above his head for a good few days.

He sat down on the edge of his bed and surveyed the mess. He should tidy it up, but it seemed like that sort of thing would take a lot of effort and energy that he didn’t have. He slouched out of his guitar and placed it on its stand next to the others without taking the case off first. The strings of the others hummed.

From his bed, he had a perfect view of himself in the mirror. He looked less shit than he had in weeks. There was some colour in his cheeks. He still looked drawn and pasty. More than that, though, he looked exhausted. He ran his hand through his hair, tugging it back from his face. He’d look awful without it. He knew he would. People would stare and laugh and he’d be a freak.

Whatever he chose to wear now wouldn’t matter; as soon as Dean took off his shirt he’d know something was wrong, then he’d have to tell him. Who in their right mind would go within a thousand yards of someone as wrong as Cas was now? And soon he wouldn’t even be pretty. He was barely holding onto that now. As soon as his hair was gone, he was fucked. He’d look like a walking corpse. A _bald_ walking corpse.  Dean would never want to touch him again.

“Cas?” Gabe said from the doorway.

Cas dropped his hands and peered up at him. He knew everything he was feeling was written across his face, but he couldn’t bring himself to try and hide it.

“You don’t have to say anything, man.”

Cas closed his eyes. “Thank you.”

“You’re meeting your man for coffee?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m guessing you don’t know what to wear?”

Cas opened his eyes again, frowning. “I’m supposed to wear something ‘comfortable’,” he muttered, sourly.

“What, are you meeting his grandma or something?” Gabe scoffed.

Cas sighed. “What the hell is ‘comfortable’ supposed to mean?”

“Like, not bondage gear,” Gabe concluded with a shrug.

“Damn. You know I like to crack out the gimp suit for second dates.”

Gabe chuckled. “You could always go out in your pyjamas.”

Cas’ skin goose pimpled. When he’d gone to have his central line catheter fitted, he’d seen rows of people sat in their pyjamas, the tubes in their own chests linked to hanging bags, covered with dark clothes. More tubes looped around their ears and disappeared into their noses.

“Earth to Cas?” Gabe said, shaking Cas’ arm.

Cas blinked. “Sorry.”

“Dude, why are you so tense? What’s up with you?” Gabe needled. He sat heavily on the bed beside him.

Cas shook his head. “I’m fine,” he lied.

“You’re not.”

Cas squeezed his eyes shut. “Don’t.”

“Cas…”

“I’m not doing this now,” he muttered. He sounded so broken and pathetic, but at least it stopped Gabe from pushing him harder.

“Right. Comfortable clothes. Hey, you still have that huge knitted sweater, right?”

Cas sighed. “Yeah?”

“That’s comfortable, but still a bit punk rock.”

“Over sized sweaters are punk rock?” Cas asked doubtfully.

Gabe shrugged. “Little brother, anything is punk rock if you wear it hard enough.”

Cas smiled. “Thanks, Gabriel.”

“Hey, what am I for if not reassuring you of your punk rock status?”

“Keeping the bath warm, apparently.”

Gabe rolled his eyes. “Now, Cassie, dear, I thought we were going to let that go.”

“If you’d fallen asleep in the bath _once_ I’d have let it go.”

“Fine, fine.”

“If it was me I’d never hear the end of it,” Cas pointed out.

“But that’s because it’s _you_.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Cas huffed.

Gabe shoved him playfully in the ribs, right under his new catheter. Cas gasped in pain. Gabe froze, eyes wide. “You hurt?”

Cas shook his head, eyes watering. “I’m fine.”

“You’re bullshitting,” Gabe grumbled.

“Gabe. Please.”

Gabe scowled, getting to his feet. “Have fun on your date,” he mumbled. He stormed out of the room.

“Gabe…” Cas called meekly. He didn’t respond. Cas let a small sob tumble out of him and lay on his side for a few moments, gaze flicking across the mess of clothes on the floor and trying to find his sweater without getting up. Gabe hadn’t hurt him much, really. It was more the shock of it.

The sweater was by the desk. Cas rolled off the bed slowly, wincing as he dropped onto his hands and knees when the movement jarred his back. He crawled to the desk and made sure he had his back carefully to the open doorway before he took off his shirt. He peered down at the tubes. The place they disappeared into him was hidden by an oversized Band-Aid identical to the one he’d had on his hip until the day before. The tubes were still visible, though, their three ends terminating in different coloured plastic caps. He pawed the end of one experimentally, as though he might be able to feel it like a freaky appendage. 

He pulled on a t-shirt and then his sweater, grimacing when he had to lift his hands over his head. He took a deep breath. He didn’t smell of hospitals anymore. Using the desk for support, he heaved himself onto his feet. He glanced in the mirror. The sweater cut off just below his hips. The sleeves hung long over his hands. He almost laughed at himself, then made his way down through the house.

“I’ll see you later, Gabe,” he called upstairs. Gabe didn’t reply.

The coffee shop was on the outskirts of town. It was only a short walk, but by the time Cas got there, he felt like he’d run a marathon. Dean was outside, perched on the narrow window ledge whilst he rolled a cigarette. He glanced up, a smile blossoming across his face as he spotted Cas. His eyes seemed almost luminous in their green beauty as he looked at him.

Cas smiled back, trying to catch his breath. “Hey,” he said breathily. “Sorry I’m late.”

“It’s cool,” Dean assured him with a shrug. “Nice sweater.”

Dean put his cigarette behind his ear and they went inside. They sat at the table right in the window. Cas watched the people walking up and down the street. A waitress skipped over from the counter. “Hiya Dean, who’s your friend?” she asked, beaming down at Cas.

She was very pretty; blonde and wide eyed in a doll-like kind of way. Cas blinked at her in confusion.

“This is Cas, Jess. Jess, Cas,” Dean explained, gesturing at each of them respectively. “Jess knows my little brother.”

“In the biblical sense?” Cas asked, arching an eyebrow.

Jess and Dean laughed and Cas smiled hesitantly.

“We’re just friends,” Jess told them firmly, almost glaring at Dean. Dean raised his eyebrows and shook his head minutely. Jess rolled her eyes. “What can I get you?”

Cas turned back to Dean again. He was watching him intently. Cas blushed.

“Two large coffees and a slice of pie,” Dean said confidently. “Cas, you want anything to eat?”

He suddenly felt very queasy. “No, thank you.”

That flash of maybe-concern crossed Dean’s face again. “You sure?”

Cas nodded.

“Bring two forks with the pie.”

“Sharing food? Dean Winchester? You must be special,” she told Cas with a wink. She walked away.

“She seems nice.”

“I wish she’d pull her head out of her ass and try it on with Sammy. He’s been crushing on her for years. He’s never going to make the first move,” Dean sighed.

“So swooping in and saving damsels in distress doesn’t run in the family, then?”

Dean chuckled. “Jess doesn’t leave much opportunity for that kind of thing. She’s way more likely to be the one doing the swooping.”

“I see,” Cas sighed.

Dean was playing with the little sachets of sugar that filled a small basket in the middle of the table. Cas couldn’t help but notice that he had very big hands.

“Busy week?” Dean asked.

Cas glanced up at him. “Yeah.”

“Me too,” Dean sighed. “There was a huge accident on the interstate yesterday. The ER has been mad.”

“That’s awful.”

Dean nodded. “I think I saw you.”

Cas frowned, his heart thudding harder in his chest. “When?”

“This morning.”

“At the hospital?” Cas squeaked.

Jess reappeared, setting a tray on the table between them. The slice of pie she’d brought them was huge. Cas glanced over to the display and confirmed his suspicion that it was actually the size of two regular portions. Dean beamed up at Jess when he thanked her, and passed Cas a fork. Their fingers brushed. “Jesus, Cas; your hands are freezing!” Dean exclaimed.

He set down the fork to take Cas’ hands and wrap them around the coffee mug closest to him. Dean’s hands, in contrast, were incredibly warm. He smoothed his thumbs over the heels of Cas’ palms, turning the leather bands on his wrists so they rubbed against his scars and made him shiver.

“You alright?” Dean asked, leaning closer.

Cas shook his head. “I’m fine,” he mumbled.

Dean smiled sadly. “You’re giving me conflicting information there.” He withdrew his hands. Cas shook his sleeves down to try and catch the warmth he’d given him.

“Sorry,” Cas sighed.

Dean shrugged. “So, what’s happened in your busy week?”

Cas gulped. “Nothing good.”

Dean frowned. “That sucks.”

Cas laughed. “Yeah. It does.”

“Me too,” Dean added darkly.

Cas’ eyes widened and his cheeks flushed red. “I’m sorry?”

Dean was blushing too. “Nothing,” he mumbled, turning to look out of the window to conceal his smirk.

“We’re in _a coffee shop_ ,” Cas reminded him.

Dean chuckled. “We’ll fix that shortly.”

Cas grinned. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Dean said confidently. He picked up one of the forks and scooped a chunk from the wedge of pie. “You know, I’ll eat this entire thing if you don’t step in soon,” Dean warned, shoving more into his mouth.

“Careful. You need to leave some room for me in there.” Cas shook his head and grabbed the other fork.

Dean almost choked, swallowing his mouthful with a gasp. Cas ate a dainty bite of pie whilst Dean took a swig of his coffee to recover some composure.

“Hey; if you can’t take it, don’t dish it out,” Cas told him.

“I can take it,” Dean muttered.

Cas smirked, remembering the first time they met, when Dean had curled against him and practically begged to be fucked. “Ah, yes,” he sighed. “I remember now; you’re going to be fun.”

Dean blushed. “I can’t be held accountable for things I told you when I was leathered.”

“Leathered?” Cas repeated, tilting his head to the side.

“ _Drunk_ ,” Dean corrected. “Don’t let your imagination run too wild, now.”

“Oh, I will,” Cas sighed dreamily. He drank some of his coffee. It was strong, washing away the sweetness from his tongue. He was slightly worried that he was going to be sick, but the warm liquid seemed to soothe his churning stomach.


	5. Slip Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning - this chapter is extremely NSFW.

Dean flicked on the lights in his kitchen and Cas blinked to try and speed up his eyes’ adjustment to the light. He felt a little woozy. Just before they’d left the coffee shop, he’d snuck an extra dose of codeine. There was no way he was going to risk turning Dean down on an invitation to his place again, but he didn’t trust his body to hold out on him, either.

They’d wound up staying for four drinks. Despite Dean’s eager tongue and Cas’ snarky replies, it seemed they were both stringing out the time they had before leaving was inevitable. Even in the car, Dean had offered to take Cas home or to a bar or something. Cas had smiled and dipped his head. “I’d like to see your place. You’ve seen mine. It’s only fair.”

Dean opened the fridge and the contents rattled. “I’ve got bud, and there’s a bottle of Jack in the freezer,” he offered lamely.

“Aren’t you supposed to offer me coffee?” Cas asked, folding his arms over his chest. It stirred the discomfort in the muscle around his new tubes and he gritted his teeth. He hadn’t thought of that. Fuck, how had he managed not to think of that?

“I can make you a coffee if you like?” Dean rubbed the back of his neck, his gaze fixed on some apparently fascinating bit of the wall over Cas’ shoulder. He was frowning, a little crease forming between his eyebrows. Whoever lit the kitchen was a genius. There were little blue LEDs fixed along the top edges of the cabinets and the colour did beautiful things to Dean’s tanned skin. He slid out of the jacket he’d been wearing all evening, obviously antsy and needing something to do with his hands. Cas chewed his lip, hiding a smile. Dean was nervous. It set the inside of Cas alight.

“Hey, is that my t-shirt?” Cas asked, taking a step towards him and running a hand up Dean’s side.

Dean’s breath hitched and Cas licked his lips. Dean was taller, but he peered at Cas through his eyelashes as though he was looking up at him. “Maybe?”

“Ugh,” Cas groaned. He slid his hand further round into the gap between the shirt and the hem of Dean’s boxers. His skin was hot under Cas’ cool fingers. “You’re doing this on purpose.”

“What?” Dean asked, batting his eyelashes innocently.

“Winding me up.”

Dean smiled, radiant. “Maybe.”

“Fuck you,” Cas hissed, curling his hand into a claw so he could drag his fingernails lightly up Dean’s spine. Dean moaned, arcing his back so that the front of him pressed into Cas. He dipped his head, pressing his lips to Cas’ throat. “Oh my _god_.”

Dean laughed and Cas felt the sound echoing through both of their chests. The tubes were digging into Cas’ skin. They must have been digging into Dean’s too. What would he think? What would he say? Shit. Dean was training to be an EMT. He’d know right away what they were, what that meant.

Cas broke away, turning out of their embrace. He felt breathless and suddenly exhausted. Dean looked upset.

“Did I do something wrong?”

“No,” Cas sighed.

“You want a glass of water?”

“That’d be nice,” Cas croaked. His mouth _was_ very dry, he realised. Dean pressed a cool glass into his hand, surveying him with a scrutiny.

“You look tired.”

Cas laughed humourlessly and gulped half of the drink he’d been given in one. “So everyone keeps telling me.”

Dean frowned, leaning against the counter. “What’s up?”

Cas swallowed thickly and shook his head. “It’s nothing.”

“Awh, man. We’re only on the second date and you’re lying to me already?” Dean smiled sadly.

Cas hung his head. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”

Dean sighed. “I’m not just in this to fuck you, you know.”

“Great headway you’re making.”

“Hey,” Dean protested, standing up straighter. “You’re the one who keeps breaking it off.”

Cas lifted his head. Dean was smiling softly, leaning with an easy openness that made Cas’ toes curl with guilt.

“Sorry about that.”

Dean shook his head. “We can take it slow.”

Cas growled and strode over to him, practically throwing the half empty glass aside to take one of Dean’s hips in each hand. “We can’t,” Cas insisted, pulling Dean close for another ragged kiss. Dean’s hands roamed across Cas’ back, clutching and unclutching fistfuls of his jacket before working their way into his hair. Dean was a good kisser, but Cas had caught him off guard. There was some technique in the way he slid his tongue along the inside of Cas’ lips, but Cas kept interrupting it with his teeth on Dean’s lips.

Cas knew he was a good kisser himself, and that the talent he possessed largely came in his unpredictability. He kissed like he was trying to stake a claim. Normally it was straight forward; kisses were gateways to fucking. If he could establish himself as the person in control in a kiss, he could guarantee himself control in the bedroom, too. It was a short-term arrangement, and the hierarchy had to be established quickly. Aside from Balthazar, Cas had never fucked the same guy twice.

Kissing Dean was different for two reasons. First, he was simultaneously afraid of hurting himself and desperate to prove that he wasn’t going to be hurt. This kiss was not just about showing Dean who was boss, it was also about Cas reminding himself of it, too. He was in control; not the freaky cells that were eating away at his bones and his sense of self.

The second reason was that Cas was used to having to fight it out. Dean didn’t seem interested in that at all. He let Cas lead him. He moaned into Cas’ playful nips and gasped obscenely at the less-than-playful ones. He was holding onto Cas with both hands, but shrinking himself under him, leaning back over the work surfaces, grinding his hips side to side over Cas’.

Cas fumbled with the buckle on Dean’s belt, having to break their kiss apart to try and work out how to open it. Dean stared down at Cas’ hurried fingers. The metal jingled as Cas finally worked it free. Dean gasped as Cas plunged his hand down into his pants and wrapped his fingers around the shaft of his cock, already hard in his boxers.

“What are you doing?” Dean gasped.

Cas grinned. “Playing.”

Dean moaned, surging forwards to press their lips together again. Dean’s hands climbed back up Cas’ back, this time under his sweater. That ought to worry Cas more, because if he turned too much, or if Dean decided to trail his hands around to the front of his body, the game would be completely given away. Hideously, Cas decided he didn’t care.

Dean pressed his palms against the cheeks of Cas’ ass, kneading gently. Cas tugged his fist around Dean’s dick to illicit another delightful moan. Cas’ pants felt uncomfortably tight, what with Dean’s hands in the back and his. As if he knew exactly what Cas was thinking, Dean shoved Cas’ jean’s down. They weren’t as snug a fit as they used to be, but Cas didn’t expend much thought on that because as Dean moved away he tugged his t-shirt over his head, baring his gorgeous chest.

He ducked his head and bit down over the flaming pendant tattoo on Dean’s pectoral muscle. Dean hissed a breath through his teeth. “Damn it, Cas,” he moaned.

“Where’s the bedroom?” Cas asked desperately.

“Oh, fuck that,” Dean groaned, resisting Cas for the first time. He guided him backwards through a doorway, kissing him through every step. He fumbled against the wall for a light switch but quickly gave up looking. They moved into darkness, and Cas held onto Dean’s waistband to lead him on. The couch hit the back of his knees and he fell, pulling Dean on top of him.

“Fuck!” Cas yelped. It was over. It was all fucking over. The weight of Dean against his chest was going to kill him. His back was in flames, and the tubes were stabbing right through him. Little white dots danced across his vison.

Dean froze then pushed himself up, completely off Cas. “Cas?” he squeaked.

“Ah, fuck,” Cas gasped. He was stiff and unmoving. Dean touched his cheek but he flinched away.

“You okay?”

“I just need a minute,” he managed to croak. Why was everything so difficult, Christ? He forced himself up into a sitting position, closing his eyes. Dean went and turned the light on. He hovered near the couch instead of sitting back down again.

“Cas, what’s going on?”

Cas shook his head. “I’m alright. I’m sorry.”

Dean sighed. He looked like he was fighting to keep from screaming at the top of his lungs. Cas squirmed. The pain was easing, and he was breathing a little more easily. If it had been anyone else, he’d have been finished by now. But then, if it had been anyone else, he’d have fucked them on the first night and never seen them again. Cas couldn’t work out if it was because Dean was different, or because Cas was too afraid. What scared him, he didn’t know. Sex used to make him feel powerful. Now he felt like a nervous little kid.

Dean stooped over him. “You’re not alright,” he said gently, smoothing his thumb along Cas’ jaw. Cas drew a shuddery breath. Dean started to move away again, but Cas grabbed him by the back of his neck and pulled him close.

“Dean, please,” Cas whispered. Dean frowned. He had such gorgeous eyes. Cas felt so completely and utterly empty, like he might just collapse in on himself and disappear into nothing. He was clinging onto Dean with furious desperation. He didn’t know what he wanted out of this, but he knew he needed it now. His lips trembled as he opened his mouth to speak. “I need you.”

The words made Dean come completely undone. All that measured care evaporated and he pulled Cas’ pants down to his mid thighs, freeing his cock for a moment before taking it in one of his hands. Cas’ nails scrabbled against the hot, damp skin of Dean’s back as he leaned down and pressed the flat of his tongue against the head of Cas’ cock. “Oh, fuck,” Cas groaned, straining up to peer down at him. Dean was already looking up at him, smirking as he flicked the tip of his tongue side to side. “Oh, Dean, _yes_ ,” Cas begged. He was working up a sweat. The room was delightfully cold on the bare skin of his legs, a sharp and welcome contrast to the heat of Dean’s mouth.

Cas was still wearing his stupid sweater and he twisted to tear it off. His t-shirt started to come with it and for a split second, he almost let it. He caught it and pulled it down, keeping his tubes hidden. He could see the outlines of them through the thin fabric, but Dean was too preoccupied with his cock to notice. He flicked his tongue again and Cas’ worries almost entirely dissolved. Dean sealed his lips around Cas, his cheeks hollowing slightly. He peered up through his eyelashes, maintaining eye contact as he settled down onto his knees right between Cas’ legs. He dipped his head down, Cas’ cock sliding right to the back of Dean’s throat. Dean blinked, moisture gathered in the corners of his eyes.

“Fuck, you’re beautiful,” Cas gasped, grabbing a fistful of Dean’s hair and guiding his head up and down. Dean spluttered and Cas released him, leaning down immediately to kiss him again. “You’re good at that.”

“You like it?” Dean asked against Cas’ lips.

Cas groaned, moving so he could press himself against Dean’s body, desperately seeking out any friction he could find. Dean was stroking himself, body tense and suspended a few inches above Cas’. Cas could feel the heat rolling off his naked body. The smell of cologne and fresh sweat filled Cas’ head and made him even more desperate. Dean was still touching himself and Cas moaned, frustrated. “Touch me,” he begged.

Dean’s eyes snapped open and he bit his lip, moving down fast to seal his mouth around Cas’ dick again. “Fuck!” Cas gasped, fingers knotting into Dean’s hair again. “Faster,” Cas pleaded. Dean moaned around him and the vibrations made Cas shudder. “Oh, _yes_!”

Dean’s hand slipped around from its steady position at the curve of Cas’ ass to cup his balls and squeeze them slightly. Cas gasped, his head thrown back in appreciation. Dean sucked harder, pulling Cas closer to the edge. “Stop!” Cas barked, desperate. “Dean, stop, or I’ll come, and I don’t want this to be over.”

The heat of Dean’s mouth was gone from his cock in an instant, and instead his lips pressed against Cas’ hard, tongue seeking, wet and wanting. Cas writhed, fingers tracing the lines of Dean’s chest, pawing at his muscles and pulling him closer. “Scratch me,” Dean gasped between kisses.

“What?” Cas’ heart skipped, hands freezing.

“Fuck; claw me, bite me, hurt me, _please_!” Dean begged, rolling his hips against Cas’, grazing the head of his cock against Dean’s stomach.

Cas grabbed Dean’s hips and yanked him close. Dean thrusted shamelessly against him, moaning and gasping as Cas raked his hands down from between Dean’s shoulder blades and right down to his ass. “God, yes,” Dean cried. Cas clawed him again. He ignored the throbbing pain in his chest to lean over Dean’s shoulder to watch red lines appear on his skin. The skin buckled and broke under Cas’ nails as he crossed the first marks he’d made, and a small triangle of blood welled to the surface. Cas pressed his palms over the marks and Dean yelped. Cas bit down on the side of Dean’s neck, trailing his hands to the front of Dean’s body so he could grab and jerk his cock.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Dean growled, his hips stuttering uselessly against the ragged rhythm of Cas’ hands. “I want to come. Please, please let me come.”

The request made Cas’ dick twitch and it took considerable will power for him not to just say no, to see if Dean would obey. He was almost certain that he would. Instead, he kissed him deep then leant up to his ear. “Come for me,” he whispered.

Dean moaned, squeezing his eyes tight shut. His cock pulsed in Cas’ hand, wetness splattering across Cas’ stomach. “Good boy,” Cas crooned.

“Cas,” Dean whimpered, letting his head fall down and rest for a moment against Cas’ shoulder. Cas closed his eyes, taking a deep breath.

Before Cas knew what was happening, Dean was gone from Cas’ chest, kneeling on the floor again. His come was cold on Cas’ stomach, but he didn’t give him much opportunity to complain. He was back with his hands all over Cas, his obscene lips wrapped so tight over Cas’ cock again, sliding his head down slowly, slowly, ever so fucking slowly to the back of his mouth. “Jesus!” Cas hissed, tossing his head. Dean’s eyes flicked up and held Cas’ gaze again. Dean moved his tongue just a little, but it was enough to send Cas over the edge. He came with a cry that drained the last vestiges of his energy. He closed his eyes, moaning appreciatively at Dean’s gentle laps at the head of his cock.

Cas was sweaty and hot and exhausted. Dean flopped down on the couch next to him. They were both panting. “Fucking hell,” Dean mumbled.

“Yeah,” Cas agreed. “Fuck. I’m never moving again.”

Dean chuckled weakly. “You’re going to regret it soon if you don’t shower.”

Cas groaned, glancing down at the mess on his stomach, under the hem of his hiked-up t-shirt. “Fuck you. It’s your mess. You deal with it.”

“Dude, if you’re going to suggest something like that, do it right away.”

Cas peered at Dean in amazement. “Dean Winchester, you’re something else, you know that?”

Dean scoffed. “I bet you say that to all the boys.”

“Only the ones that beg me to let them come,” Cas told him with a grin. He peered around to watch Dean’s cheeks flush scarlet. “Oh now, don’t be embarrassed.”

Dean settled his head against the back of the couch again with a sigh. “You’re right.”

“I often am,” Cas sighed. He sat up and Dean lifted his head, frowning. “Where’s the shower, then?”

There was a tiny dark hallway back towards the kitchen and Dean led Cas through the one door he’d not been through yet. Dean’s bedroom was messy. His dark grey sheets were slept in and unmade, blankets crumpling onto the floor, pillows askew on the mattress. There were a few photographs on the windowsill in front of the open window. Cas shivered in the sudden chill. Dean set the shower running, and Cas tore off his t-shirt without a second thought.

Dean turned, eyes tracking over Cas’ chest gratuitously. Dean stiffened, eyes flitting up too Cas’.

“What?” Cas asked, but his stomach was churning. He glanced down at himself, at the three tubes, held horizontal by strips of surgical tape. At the thick wedge of plastic where they united in one, which disappeared under Cas’ skin, perfectly visible through the clear Band-Aid that was covering it. The slit in his chest was dark red with drying blood.

Cas’ head was spinning. He clutched the doorway for support. “Fuck, oh fuck,” he gasped. He started to sink to the floor. Dean caught him and redirected him to the edge of the bed. “I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”

“Shut up,” Dean snapped. He had one hand on each of Cas’ shoulders. Cas tried to jerk away, moving to put the t-shirt he still had in his hand back on. Dean grabbed his wrists over his leather bands. Cas’ scars twinged. He shuddered.

“Let me,” he squeaked.

Dean shook his head. “Cas. Why do you have a Hickman line catheter?”

Cas shuddered and squeezed his eyes shut.

“Cas?”

“I can’t tell you,” he spluttered, jerking his hands free. Dean snatched the t-shirt off him before he could hide himself under it. Cas whimpered.

“Jesus, when did you have this fitted?” Dean asked, peering more closely.

“Today.”

Dean lifted his head, eyes wide with shock. “And you didn’t think to tell me that before I went slamming you into couches and grinding you into walls?”

Cas winced. “I’m sorry.”

“What the fuck, Cas? What if I’d hurt you? _Really_ hurt you?”

Cas shook his head. “I’m fine, and I wanted to sleep with you. You don’t need to treat me like I’m broken or, or…”

“For crying out loud! I couldn’t have kept it my pants again, Christ! I’d still have fucked you, I’d have just been… more careful.” He brushed a finger along Cas’ collar bone.

“I don’t want you to be careful,” Cas whispered.

Dean sighed emphatically. “I promise I won’t be, then,” he grumbled, shoving Cas in the side.

Cas smiled weakly and put a hand over the place the tubes disappeared in his chest.

“Aww, Jesus,” Dean muttered.

“What?”

“I nearly came all over them.”

Cas laughed. The sound tumbled out of him and quickly became unstoppable. He flopped back onto the mattress, unable to stop himself. Dean was laughing too, shyly at first, but apparently, the sight of Cas completely losing it was hilarious enough that soon Dean couldn’t stop himself either. The tension of the past week shook itself out of Cas’ chest, all the fear of hiding and the horrible anticipation breathing right out into the air above them.

Eventually, after what felt like hours, Cas sighed. He glanced at the digital clock on Dean’s bedside table. It was almost nine in the evening. He had just over three hours of Tuesday, and the whole of Wednesday. And then it was going to start. He sat up.

“Oh, wow,” Dean muttered under his breath, reaching to brush his hands down Cas’ back.

Cas smiled. The tattoos were normally the thing that pulled people up short. He craned his neck over his shoulder, admiring the carefully etched feathers, each one outlined in black, but all partially filled with a slightly different shade. The wings started at the very top of his back and arced all the way down the backs of his thighs. It would have cost him a small fortune if Gabe hadn’t known the guy that did it for him. There were hundreds of colours back there.

“This must have been agony.” Dean sounded impressed. Cas drew a shuddery breath. At the time, he’d thought it had been. It was nothing on his bone marrow aspiration. It was nothing on the pain in his lower back whenever he forgot to take his pain killers. It was nothing on the black cloud of horror waiting for him on Thursday morning, when he’d arrive at the hospital and they’d put the tubes in his chest to some use.

“So, is this why the band’s called Seraphims?” Dean asked, leaning his head-on Cas’ shoulder.

“Yes, actually.” Cas smiled and leaned against Dean’s chest. Dean reached around him, pawing the plastic end of one of the tubes. Cas sighed. “Aren’t you going to ask?”

“Ask what?”

“Why they’re there?”

Dean was silent for a few moments. Cas could hear his heart throbbing in his chest. Was he imagining that it sounded like it was beating hard, like he was afraid? “Are you going to tell me?”

Cas was quiet for a while too. The shower was still running from when Dean had turned it on before. He opened his mouth. He could feel the words on his lips, but he couldn’t make the sounds. He’d never said it out loud. He couldn’t do it.

“I should really shower,” Cas mumbled.

Dean sighed and fell back against the mattress. “That’s what I thought.”


	6. Life Choices

Cas hadn’t even left his house for his appointment and he’d already thrown up twice. Gabe was dead to the world, sprawled on the ivory couch in the living room. Cas was hunched over the toilet in the utility room behind the kitchen. It would be his third toilet of the morning. If he just went into Gabe’s on suite, he’d have a full house. He wretched, but nothing came up. It felt like there was nothing left inside him. He felt hollowed out.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. “Yeah?”

“It’s your cab. I’m outside.”

“Alright. Give me a minute.” Cas hung up and shoved the phone back into the pocket of his jeans. He checked his reflection in the mirror. He looked like he felt; exhausted and dead inside. There was an unhealthy sheen to his complexion. His hair hadn’t dried from the shower. His clothes looked too big. He fiddled with his bracelets and hurried out of the house.

He thought about calling to Gabe, but he probably wouldn’t have noticed, and if he had he might have asked where he was going. Cas was in no state to dream up lies or explanations. He locked the door and pocketed his key, skipping down to the cab parked at the end of his driveway. He sat in the passenger seat.

“Where to mate?” the cabbie asked.

“The hospital,” Cas squeaked. His voice sounded tiny and ridiculous. He cleared his throat. The cabbie glanced at him and seemed to conclude Cas wasn’t going to be one for conversation.

Cas’ stomach churned. He fiddled with the hem of his jacket sleeve. He took the leaflet he’d been given out of his pocket then put it back again. He hadn’t been able to bring himself to read it. He couldn’t even stomach looking at it now.

He’d woken up at four that morning, furious at himself for sleeping through Wednesday. Michael was furious too. Obviously, he was going to miss their Thursday rehearsal, too. And their Friday one. Michael was so angry he’d seemed to forget to speak, and it took a lot to get him to shut up, in Cas’ experience.

He couldn’t seem to play properly, either. His hands were shaking too much. He was too easily distracted. Whenever he tried to sing, his voice cracked and faded out. He forgot the lyrics to songs he’d written three weeks ago and mucked up the melodies of tunes he’d been singing all his life. He was a wreck. He couldn’t eat. He couldn’t barely walk straight.

The cab pulled up at the hospital’s front entrance way before Cas was ready to get out of the car. He sat, staring at the door through the window. “Hey, buddy,” the cabby said. “I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

“I have cancer,” Cas blurted out. The cabby’s eyes widened. “Fuck, I’m sorry.” He fumbled with his wallet and handed the guy a twenty. “Keep the change.”

He stood on the kerbside. He was shaking. He could feel the sweat on his forehead. Here, he couldn’t deny it. Here, there were no amount of lies that could hide away the truth. He was not Castiel, guitarist of the Seraphims, seducer of gorgeous men, owner of four guitars and one beautiful tattoo. He was just a patient.

“Cas?”

Cas turned, mouth open in shock. Dean had a cigarette hanging out of the corner of his easy smile. Every step he took to Cas, the smaller his smile got. Cas couldn’t make himself speak. The words were stuck thick in his throat. “Cas, you’re shaking. You should have a coat on. It’s freezing out here.”

Dean was shrugging out of his leather jacket. He wrapped it around Cas’ shoulders. Cas wanted to protest, but he couldn’t. He let Dean thread his arms into the coat and then pull him close to his chest. Dean pressed a kiss to Cas’ forehead. How he could stand it, Cas didn’t know. He knew he was soaking with sweat and the kiss couldn’t have been pleasant in the slightest.

Dean was wearing turquoise scrubs. “Are you here on your own?”

Cas blinked at him. “What?”

“Shit, you are, aren’t you? Did you drive here by yourself?” Dean looked mad. Cas cringed away from him.

“I got a cab.”

“Jesus. I could have given you a ride. I’d have bunched my breaks together to come get you,” he berated tiredly. Why was he saying that? They barely knew each other, really. Cas hadn’t told Dean why he was there, either. If he knew, he wouldn’t be offering. The irony of that had Cas’ already tumultuous stomach writhing even more.

Cas shook his head.

Dean looked heartbroken. “Cas, you’re shaking like a leaf.”

“I’m going to be late,” Cas managed to croak.

“You going to be okay?”

Cas forced himself to stand straighter and plant a gentle kiss on Dean’s lips. “I’ll be alright.” His voice barely even trembled.

“Hey, I hear you’re playing a gig tomorrow night?” Dean asked with a flicker of a smile. He didn’t seem entirely relaxed but at least he’d changed the subject. Maybe Cas had him convinced enough that he might actually let it go.

“Yeah. At the Stone Roses club,” Cas explained.

“I finish at five tomorrow, so I could meet you there for drinks before?”

Cas’ stomach lurched. His chemo sessions were eight hours long and started at ten in the morning. “I’m busy until six, and I’ll need to tune up before we go on.”

“Oh, right.”

“I’ll see you after, though?” Cas added hopefully.

Dean smiled again. “Sure. I’ll see you then, Cas,” he said, within another brush of his thumb over Cas’ cheek.

Cas nodded. “Yeah, see you.”

Dean walked away, back to work. Cas was shaking a little less than he had been before. The encounter had at least made him feel a little more like himself. He shoved his hands into his pockets and shuffled through the reception area and into the elevators. He hated them and would usually have avoided them at all costs, but he was ninety percent certain he wouldn’t have made it up the stairs without collapsing. By the time he got to the right floor, he was hyper ventilating. He stopped at the counter, and a girl with red hair smiled up from behind the desk. “Hello? Are you lost, sweetheart?”

“I’m looking for oncology,” Cas squeaked.

The woman smiled warmly. “You’re in the right place, honey, don’t worry. Are you on your own?”

Cas nodded.

The woman pursed her lips. “Is this your first time?” Cas nodded again. “If there’s someone you can call, it’d be a really good idea.”

Cas thought about Dean downstairs, and released a shuddery breath. “There’s no one,” he concluded finally.

“Okay. Don’t you worry. What's your name, honey?” she asked, scanning her charts.

“Castiel Milton.”

“Okay, I got you down here. You’ll be in the room at the end of the hall, on the left. Normally out-patients are downstairs. I don’t know why Dr Moore’s had you coming all the way…” she trailed off, glancing over Cas’ notes. She peered up at him sadly. “Myeloma?” she asked.

Cas nodded.

“Okay, honey. Come with me,” she got to her feet and pulled the cardigan she had over her scrubs around her shoulders. “It’s always chilly in the corridors, but believe me, the wards are nice and toasty. And there’s lots of blankets in the outpatient room up here, so you’ll be nice and warm.”

Cas said nothing. He trailed after her, looking at the plastic floor. It was pale purple and flecked with grey, blue and sparkles. There were marks from skidding rubber wheels. Everything smelled like disinfectant.

The room looked like a regular ward, with several beds along one wall and a collection of chairs by the large windows at the end. The room was empty.

“Where should I go?”

“Anywhere you like.”

“Can I go home?” Cas asked with a pathetic laugh.

“We’ll take good care of you, I promise,” the nurse assured him.

Cas sat on the edge of the bed closest to the door. First, someone came and flushed saline through his tubes. It wasn’t painful, as Cas had feared, but it was unpleasant. Then he had to sit through half an hour of pre-meds, which he was told were supposed to stop him from feeling sick. He puked halfway through the infusion. Someone brought him a glass of water, which he drank too fast and threw up again, all down his shirt. He refused to put on a hospital gown as a replacement, instead drawing the curtains around his bed and swaddling himself in blankets.

Finally, but too soon, he was hooked three hanging IV bags. He started up shaking again. He couldn’t stop staring at them. He puked neatly into a cardboard bowl. He lay on his side, then his back, then his other side. He felt heavy. His eyelids wouldn’t open. He was still sweating buckets, but at least he was falling asleep.

A cold hand on his chest shocked him into wakefulness.

“It’s alright,” Dr Moore promised with a smile. “Just checking on your insertion site. How’re you feeling?”

Cas was about to answer, but he could taste bile at the back of his throat. Dr Moore seemed to sense what was going to happen and held a cardboard bowl to his chin. He threw up, gasping.

“We have given you anti-nausea meds, I promise,” she told him softly.

“I’m tired,” Cas told her.

“That’s normal. You’ve got three hours or so to go.”

“Only three hours?” Cas asked groggily. “I’ve been asleep that long?”

“Doesn’t time fly by when you’re having fun?”

Cas grimaced and sat up. The bed crinkled under his hand. Apparently, someone had the foresight to put some paper towels next to him on the bed when he was asleep. There was a small patch of dried puke on one of them. The side of Cas’ face was stiff and sticky.

“I hear you came on your own,” Dr Moore said with a frown.

“I didn’t know who to ask,” Cas admitted, truthfully.

“A lot of people find it difficult to accept what’s happening in the beginning. I know this is all moving very fast, Cas, but you don't have to do this all by yourself.”

Cas felt very much on his own for the last three hours. He felt even more tired than he had that morning, but he couldn’t find a way to lie down that was comfortable. He pulled the book out of his bag that he’d brought along for entertainment, as advised, but his eyes wouldn’t settle on the page. He felt so disgustingly nervous, he couldn’t sit still. He wandered around the still-empty ward room, staring out of the windows. They faced east, so the sky was already navy blue even though the windscreens of the cars in the parking lot were glinting fiery orange in the sunset. People kept bringing him water, but it tasted acrid in his mouth. He dragged his IV pole back to the bed he’d slept on, where he’d left his rucksack and his unread book.

When it was finally done, he called a cab, and this time he managed not to blurt out anything inappropriate to the cabby during his short journey home.

Back at the house, Gabe was still passed out on the couch.

Cas didn’t bother saying hello to him. He slouched upstairs and went and sat in the shower, not giving a fuck about what anyone said about properly caring for his tubes or whatever else. He sobbed quietly behind the locked door, and curled up in bed without drying himself. He took his anti-nausea pills dry, unable to stomach the water he should have swallowed them with.

There was a soft knock on his door. 

"What?" Cas groaned. 

Gabe pushed the door open and shuffled into the room. He'd put on his dressing gown over yesterday's clothes. "What are you doing in bed? It's only seven thirty."

Cas considered making some kind of snappy retort but only closed his eyes. "What do you want?"

"I'm ordering pizza."

"That's nice."

"Cas, come on," Gabe whined, sitting at the end of the bed. "You've got to forgive me eventually."

Cas sighed. "I have."

"Then why are you acting like you're still pissed at me?" 

Gabe tugged down Cas' duvet to expose his face. "I'm tired, Gabriel."

Gabe threw the blankets back over him with a huff. "Fine. Do you want pizza or not?"

"No."

"Cas..." Gabe began. "If things are getting bad again, you know I'm here for you, right?"

Cas nuzzled his way forward to peer over the edge of his duvet. "I'm alright, Gabe."

"No, you're not. I'm not an idiot, Cassie. I know I act like one a lot of the time, but I'm not. There's something going on. You aren't exactly being subtle about it."

"I'm not depressed," Cas protested. 

"Is it the guy?"

"What guy?"

"The comfortable clothes one?"

Cas sighed and squeezed his eyes shut. Gabe was a lot more perceptive than Cas gave him credit for. 

"I can make sure you never see him again if you like."

"I really like him, Gabe. He's not the problem."

"So there is a problem!" Gabe cried triumphantly. "At last, the truth!"

"You know what the problem is? My pain in the ass brother won't let me sleep," Cas muttered. 

"Ah, whatever, loser. I'll order something for you and put in the fridge, yeah?"

Cas determinedly didn't reply. 

"I meant what I said, though," Gabe added. "About being there for you."

"Thanks, Gabe," Cas mumbled. 

Gabe got to his feet. "I'm sorry. Whatever it is that makes you think you can't tell me right away... I'm sorry."

Cas frowned, but he didn't say anything. Gabe sighed and slouched out of the room, closing the door behind himself. Cas uncurled himself and lay flat on his back. He couldn't tell Gabe. It'd crush him. It was already crushing Cas, wasn't it? It didn't need to kill his brother, too.


	7. The Righteous Man

Cas’ second chemo session was less nauseating than the first. In a moment of bold decisiveness, Cas decided he’d only take his pills if he started to feel like he was going to puke. He was fine on his bus ride to the bar, and for the first twenty minutes of their hurried rehearsal. Then his stomach had started to turn. He took the pills, but threw up ten minutes later anyway. He was staring the undissolved meds floating in his puke. Whatever he’d thought earlier, this was clearly a bad idea on his part.

Michael knocked on the door again. “Cas, are you done yet? We’re on in like three minutes so get your shit together,” he shouted through the door, over the sound of Cas throwing up in the toilet. Again.

“Give me a minute.” Cas dabbed his mouth with a wad of toilet paper.

“You can have forty seconds.”

Cas heard the step outside the door creak as he walked off. Cas threw up again; horrible disgusting tasting water-based puke that kept coming up no matter how certain he was he had nothing left in his churning body. He put his hand over the Hickman line in his chest, pressing against the gentle throb. He refilled the plastic cup he had in his hand with water from the tap and took a delicate sick. It tasted like cleaning fluid and made him gag. He threw up again, gasping.

“Christ, what the fuck did you take?” Michael demanded, obviously not having walked away after all.

“Poison,” Cas replied bitterly.

Michael growled with annoyance. “Can you stand on the stage and hold your fucking guitar?” he yelled. Cas heaved himself to his feet and peered at himself in the mirror. He was a mess. He could feel himself trembling slightly. The stage would be dark; it would hide the worst of it. He was sure he could make it through this. It was just a matter of perseverance.

Cas straightened his shirt and opened the door. “Yes.”

“Then get out here, stand on the stage, hold your guitar and sing. You can die in half an hour.” Michael grimaced. “You look fucking terrible.”

“I know,” Cas groaned.

Michael sighed emphatically. “Maybe eyeliner will make you look half alive, at least.”

He gestured towards Cas’ face with a stubby pencil as though asking his permission. “Go ahead,” Cas told him with a grin. “I let a complete stranger drive a needle into my pelvis last week. This is nothing by comparison.”

“Is that an innuendo?” he asked, gingerly smearing the eyeliner onto Cas’ face, layering it on quite thickly. Cas grimaced, hoping that Dean would be into it.

A voice comes over the loudspeakers announcing the Seraphims onto the stage. “Holy shit. Come on,” Michael barked.

Cas lifted his guitar from where he left it, propped next to the sink in the bathroom. He slung it over his shoulder and took a deep breath before following Michael down a short flight of stairs, and then out onto the very small, but very official-looking stage.  

Cas stood behind the mic and surveyed the crowd for a moment. “We’re the Seraphims, and this is ‘Ay Men,’” he said in his best, gruff stage performance voice, then he heard Gabe count them in with three clicks of his drum sticks.

Cas immediately found the rhythm in the song and lost himself to it. Everything he’d been feeling for the past week crackled to the surface of his skin and guided his fingers over the strings. He didn’t forget any of the words. He didn’t miss any of his cues. He even flicked his hips suggestively as he sang:

“ _I’m falling to my knees,_

_To bring you your salvation!_

_I’ve got you begging for release,_

_I’m the sin and the redemption._

_Forget to sing hail Mary,_

_Forget to pray for peace,_

_We both know that you’re too far gone._

_I’m falling to my knees!_

_Ay, amen! Ay, amen! Ay, amen!_

_Oh, and you’re such a little tease_

_I’ll have you begging on your knees_

_Then all you have to do is scream AMEN!”_

The crowd cheered and Cas drew a ragged breath, leaning back from the mic for a moment and scanning the front of the crowd. The noise was for them, for him, but he could barely hear it over the ringing in his ears. He couldn't do it. He couldn't carry on. His throat was aching and his mouth was sour. He could feel sweat on his brow and a dull, splintering exhaustion at his core that made his knees tremble. Everything was blurred and spinning. He should have taken his pills. He should have gone home, laid down, and been a good little cancer patient. He was stupid, so fucking stupid to have tried to act like he was anything more than that. He shuddered, clinging to the mic, blinking deliriously at the faceless crowd.

"Cas!" Someone yelled from below him. Somehow, Cas' gaze settled and he saw that Dean was right at foot of the stage, his head appropriately level with Cas’ waist, only three feet away from him. He was smiling, and in the soft green stage lights, he was radiant. Cas remembered perfectly the look on Dean's face as he knelt between his knees. He had to keep standing. He had to carry on. Dean was there, and he was watching. He'd turned up to hear them play music, not watch Cas have a breakdown in front of two hundred people. 

Cas glanced over his shoulder, looking straight past Michael and over to Gabe, waiting poised behind the drum kit. He nodded once, and Gabe grinned wide.

Gabe counted in the next song and Cas closed his eyes. His stomach was rolling, but somehow he managed to make it through the remaining three songs of their set. When they were done, he practically limped off the stage. He didn’t dare look out for Dean again in case he puked right there on the stage. He rushed to the toilet and hurled loudly, the door still open. Gabe appeared, filling it.

“What’s the matter with you?” he asked, scandalised.

“My bones are dissolving,” Cas answered simply, getting to his feet. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m meeting someone.”

Flummoxed, Gabe stepped aside to let Cas past.

Michael grabbed his sleeve. “Cas, you fucking weirdo. I need you to come talk to someone with me.”

Cas frowned. “Who?”

Michael didn’t answer. He started off up a flight of stairs that had a ‘STAFF ONLY’ sign next to it. After a moment’s hesitation, Cas followed.

Above the club was a collection of weird function rooms, unchanged from when the building was used as office space. Old off-white desks were pushed along the walls, ancient computer monitors gathered dust in the foot-deep cooling grilles. There was a man standing in the corner of the room with his back to them, hands clasped.

“Cas, this is Mr Crowley. He’s interested in making us a deal,” Michael explained breathily. Cas frowned. “Look, I know I didn’t say anything before but it’s only because I know how you get when you’re under pressure, and I just wanted Mr Crowley to see the real you. Do you understand?”

Crowley turned with a smile and extended a hand towards Cas. He took it reluctantly. “My, my; you’re even prettier up close.”

Cas shot Michael a look of contempt but Michael only smiled encouragingly.

“You’re offering us a deal?” Cas asked. Michael glowered at Cas. If he’d been standing any closer Cas was sure he’d be able to hear him grinding his teeth in fury.

“I’m certainly interested in hearing more from you,” Crowley said. He dropped Cas’ hand like it was on fire and turned his attention to the guitar slung over his shoulder. Cas’ stomach churned and his gag reflex triggered itself. Cas swallowed back sour bile and ducked his head before he answered.

“Well. It’s Michael’s band, really.”

Crowley laughed. “With all due respect, Michael’s not the one at the front of the stage.”

Cas stood a little taller, his stomach flipping again. He was going to puke all over the record company guy. Michael was staring him down. He’d kill him. The only way he could possibly justify throwing up on such an important person so crucial to Michael’s future was telling him the truth. If he did that, the record company probably wouldn’t sign them anyway. How many indie rock bands had a front man who actually needed the drugs he was taking? Cas took a deep breath and cleared his throat. He’d just have to hold it together until he could make it out of there.

“No, but he’s the one you need to speak too. What he says goes. I’m easy.” Cas’ words seemed to appease Michael. “If you don’t mind, there’s something important I need to do,” Cas said smoothly, and he stepped out of the room as fast as he could without running. There was a mop standing in a bucket a few feet to his left and he crumbled to his knees, pulling it close and sloshing foul-smelling, brown water over the edge. He threw up as quietly as he could manage and fell back with a clatter. He leaned against the wall, gasping.

“Cas?”

“Hey, Gabe,” Cas sighed, still trying to catch his breath.

“What’s going on?”

“Michael didn’t tell you? Someone’s interested in making us a deal.”

Gabe’s eyebrows shot up. He sat down next to Cas on the linoleum. “A record deal?”

Cas nodded.

“Huh. Nobody tells me anything.” He sounded put out. “I suppose there’s somewhere important you need to be,” he said miserably as Cas got to his feet.

“I’m supposed to be meeting Dean,” Cas admitted.

“Comfortable coffee shop boy?” Gabe asked, reaching up with his hand for Cas to pull him to his feet. Cas tried, but failed. Gabe rolled his eyes and stood up by himself. “Balthazar’s having a gathering at his place tonight, if you fancy.”

“Really?”

Balthazar rarely hosted anything in his tiny apartment. It was partly because it was too small for him to throw any major events, but mostly because of the number of girls and boys he had going through there at any one time. He didn’t sleep with most of them; he just liked to watch. Cas thought it was funny. Balthazar thought that was very funny indeed.

“I think he’s hoping to lure you in.” Gabe grinned and jabbed Cas in the ribs.

Cas sighed. “Probably wants a good fucking.”

“Hey, you’re not being fair. Baz was your friend for ages before you slept together,” Gabe reminded him. Gabe was right, but Cas didn’t acknowledge it. He shoved his hands into his pockets. “He probably misses having you around, that’s all.”

Cas swallowed hard. He knew he’d been difficult to be around for a while, but it was only because he’d been so tired all the time. He hadn’t managed to make it through a night out for a good few months. Was that the cancer, he wondered? Even then?  

Gabe sighed and walked away from him, shaking his head. Cas didn’t call after him, though he wondered if he should have.

Dean was in a quiet corner of the club, leaning against one of the tall table pushed against the walls. He had two friends with him, perched on the only available stools. Cas’ heart sank a little when he realised there was nowhere for him to sit down. Dean beamed when he spotted him, though, and that lifted his spirits a little.

“You were amazing!” Dean crows, leaning down to press a kiss to Cas’ mouth as soon as he’s within reach. Cas’ head spins and he clings to Dean’s belt to steady himself.

“You were so great!” Jo called over the music pounding out of the speakers above them. Charlie nodded adamantly at her side, sipping a bright blue cocktail.

Dean’s chin was dappled with faint stubble, his usually sculpted hair hanging damp with sweat and sticking to his forehead. He looked like baby Kurt Cobain. Cas put his guitar under the table and Dean put his hand right on the part of his back that Cas had almost forgotten was killing him. Dean’s touch didn’t make the pain worse or better, but Cas could feel little lines like static radiating from Dean’s palm.

Cas stood up to smile at him, but Dean was looking away, listening intently to something Jo was telling him that Cas couldn’t make out over the noise. Cas leaned against Dean’s side, and Dean moved his arm obligingly to loop around his shoulders. Cas remembered that Dean had given him his coat, and Cas had thrown up on it, and it was still in knotted bag at the bottom of his rucksack in the corner of his bedroom. He felt a surge of guilt, but didn’t say anything.

Dean nodded in fierce agreement. Cas watched emotions flit over his face as he talked. Dean seemed to feel things so strongly and immediately, it was fascinating. Cas had never seen anything quite like it. One moment he was laughing, the next he was deadly serious, his brows knitting together in real concern. Give it another moment and a change in Jo’s tone, and Dean was grinning like an idiot, unable to stop his gaze flickering down to Cas’ eyes every few moments, like it was impossible for him to look away. Cas waited for that expression to disappear like the others, but it didn’t. Dean was still responding, his face still adapting to display his emotions with an almost embarrassing level of honesty and sincerity, but he couldn’t seem to stop peering over at Cas. Whenever he did, whatever the conversation was doing, Dean flashed Cas a brief, conspiratorial smile. _You’re the important one_ , the smiles said. _I’m talking with her, but it’s you I’m listening to._

“…Cas!” Charlie yelled at him.

“What?” he called back.

“Your eye liner!” she explained. “It’s pretty!”

Cas grinned. “Thank you!”

Dean’s fingers started playing with the hem of Cas’ shirt and his pulse quickened, but then he remembered; Dean had seen the tubes. Dean had seen him at the hospital. Dean flashed him another brief, glorious smile, and Cas’ insides went few degrees hotter. It didn’t matter. Dean smiled again, eyes darting from Cas’ this time and down to their hips, pressed flush.

Maybe it would matter if he really knew. If he knew Cas had cancer, that he’d spent the whole day having poison dripped slowly into his chest, that he wasn’t sure, as much as he avoided thinking about it, if he was going to live for very much longer. Cas held onto Dean tight. The club was spinning around them. Cas squeezed his eyes shut. He had really been avoiding thinking about it. He was so caught up in making sure nobody found out that he’d forgotten the reason he didn’t want anyone to find out. He tried so hard not to listen when anyone told him about his disease. He tried and succeeded not to google the name he had for it. But there were things he couldn’t help but hearing. Things like ‘not generally considered curable’.

“Dean,” he called up to him.

Dean turned down to him, smiling again. Cas smiled back and pulled him close, kissing him hard. One of his friends whooped; Cas didn’t know or care which. “Let’s go,” Cas begged in Dean’s ear.

Dean pulled away nodding. “Hey,” he shouted across the table. “We’re heading off.” Cas and Dean spirit through the crowds to the door of the club. Cas breathed the wintery night air; so cold it feels like liquid in his mouth.

“God, you’re beautiful,” Dean gasped and pulled him close. They kissed long and desperate, ignoring the whistling and jeering from the people queuing outside the club doors. Cas stomach lurched and he had to pull away. He kept a tight hold of Dean’s hand as he threw up in the gutter.

“Have you been drinking?” Dean asked as Cas wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

“No,” Cas told him, truthfully. See, he wasn’t lying. Sure, he wasn’t telling Dean _all_ the truth, but he wasn’t lying to him. He’d barely known the guy a week, anyway. He hadn’t told his brother, who he lived with and spoke to every day of his life. Cas hadn’t even told his own mother. He shouldn’t feel guilty for not telling Dean, because Dean was not yet in a position that meant he was entitled to know. Nobody was entitled to know. It was Cas’ problem, not theirs. He was determined to keep it that way.

“Let’s go back to my place,” Cas announced.

“Your brother, though,” Dean pointed out.

Cas shook his head. “He’s going out. He won’t be back until tomorrow, in the earliest.”

He reeled Dean close, breathing the misty air from his lips. Dean fumbled in his coat for his box of cigarettes, and popped one into his own mouth and one in Cas’ when he finally found them. They held hands and walked down the street, blowing out smoke behind them as they went.

“We seem to be walking,” Dean realised.

Cas scoffed. “Ugh, fuck that. Call a cab.”

“I don’t mind walking?” Dean offered.

Cas shook his head. “If you want me functional when we get home, we’re calling a cab.”

Dean nodded, his expression serious. “I definitely want you functional.”

Twenty minutes later Cas was unlocking the door. Dean stumbled through the hallway, giggling. “What’s with you?” Cas asked, dropping his guitar to the ground with a sigh.

“I’m just really happy I’m here.” Dean shrugged and pulled Cas close. “With you.”

Cas rolled his eyes. “You big lush. You’ve been drinking, haven’t you?”

Dean pouted. “Only a little.”

Cas sighed and shook his head. “Come on. I’ll make a coffee. I can’t do anything with you in this state.”

Dean grabbed the crotch of Cas’ jeans, biting his lip. “Sure you can.”

Cas shoved him away. “No, I can’t. I think it’s against the law.”

Dean frowned. “What do you mean?”

“You’re in no state to meaningfully consent,” Cas explained, leading Dean to the kitchen. Dean sat at one of the clear plastic chairs gathered around the table. It was unusually clear, only a few used mugs and plates cluttering its surface. The place felt eerily quiet without Gabe’s music playing through it. Cas realised, very belatedly, that Gabe hadn’t had a party that Thursday night after all. Cas combed his fingers through his hair. That was probably why Gabe had come up to ask him for pizza. He was looking for his good deed to be acknowledged. Cas had been so wrapped up in himself that he hadn’t even noticed.

Dean wound his arms around Cas’ waist, resting his head between his shoulder blades. “What’s wrong, baby?”

Cas scoffed. “Baby?”

Dean chuckled. “Sorry. Sort of slipped out.”

Cas sighed and poured boiling water onto the instant coffee grounds he’d already placed in two mugs. Dean moaned as the smell of it permeated the room. Cas laughed. “Alright, lover boy. You’re cream and two sugars, right?”

“Just like you,” Dean said with a smile, nuzzling against Cas’ neck.

“What does that even mean?” Cas asked. He drank his coffee black.

“Sweet and creamy,” Dean explained.

Cas tutted. “And bad for your health.”

Dean snorted, stirring his coffee with a teaspoon as Cas dropped in two cubes of sugar. “Cas…”

“Mm?”

“You know… you know whatever’s wrong with you?”

An ice-cold chill ran down from Cas’ head to his toes. He almost dropped his mug. “What about it?” he asked, dead-pan.

“It’s not going to affect me too, is it?”

Cas heaved a massive sigh. “You can’t catch it.”

Dean nodded, nuzzling Cas’ neck again. “Okay.”

Cas’ stomach churned. He gripped the counter for support. “You think I wouldn’t tell you if it were?”

“Well, I don’t know, do I?”

Cas squeezed his eyes shut. His stomach lurched. He barely made it to the sink before he puked into it. He tried to straighten up, panting to regulate his breaths, but he was sick again before he managed it. “Fuck,” he spat, wiping his mouth with the heel of his hand.

Dean was frozen over by the kettle. His eyes were wide. Cas tore his gaze from him, opening his mouth to say something reassuring, but all that happened was that he threw up. “Oh, Jesus,” he groaned. He slid down onto his knees. The floor tiles were cool against his palms. The room was spinning like he’d drunk half a bottle of tequila or he’d just stepped off a merry-go-round. 

“Cas?” Dean sounded terrified.

“Give me a minute.” The sweat on his face was cooling fast. He lapped it off his upper lip. The taste of salt was a relief against the chemical dryness of his tongue. He rested his head against the cabinet door and closed his eyes. He was frightened of moving in case it brought on another round of puking. The room was quiet, the air hanging heavy and still. The only sound was Cas’ ragged breaths.

He felt something soft on his shoulders. When he peered around, he saw Dean crouching behind him, tucking the red throw off the couch around him. “Thanks,” he told him weakly. Dean tried to smile, but grimaced instead. Cas sighed and turned, pulling the blanket around himself more fully. He shuddered, acknowledging the cold in his body.

“What do you need?” Dean asked.

Cas blinked at him. He wanted to lie, to tell him he was fine, but he could feel himself trembling. Dean looked like it was taking considerable effort for him not to freak out. “Just sit with me?” Cas’ voice was hoarse and barely recognisable. Dean nodded. He moved so he was leaning against the cabinet too.

It was silent, apart from the sound of their breathing, and the low, constant hum of the fridge, and the ticking of the clock in the hall. Cas closed his eyes. Dean’s hand was resting on the tiles next to the edge of Cas’ blanket. Cas threaded his arm free and laced their fingers together. “Thank you.”

Dean scoffed.

Cas smiled. “You’re a good guy.”

Dean was quiet. He dropped his head down to Cas’ shoulder. 

Cas wasn't sure how long they stayed of that. He was certain that after a while, he started to fall asleep. Eventually, Dean slid an arm around him and another behind the backs of his knees and tried to lift him. He couldn't manage it, of course; Cas was getting thinner but wasn't exactly a spring chicken. He clambered groggily to his feet, letting Dean take his weight on his shoulders. They curled up around each other on the couch, and Cas fell asleep again. 

It didn't feel like he'd slept for long. 

The room was filled with sunlight. 

Dean was snoring slightly, curled next to him.

Cas traced the outline of his lips with the tip of his finger. He didn’t stir. Cas wasn’t sure if he wanted him to or not. He trailed his hand down Dean’s forearm, smoothing the fine blonde hairs that cover it, half-hiding a constellation of tiny freckles.

Cas picked at the bracelets around his wrists, stretching his right arm towards the ceiling so they all shuffled closer to his elbows. It exposed the white flick of one of his scars, like the tongue of a ghostly lizard. He could dimly remember how he’d felt when he’d made them. The anger and desperation in his blood as it dripped onto the tiles in his parent’s bathroom. It all felt small and far away from that moment. How had Cas once thought he couldn’t stand to see the next morning?

Perhaps this was a punishment, he wondered. Perhaps it was because he’d been ungrateful for what he’d had. He dropped his arms back down onto the throw. What if he’d died that night, like he’d wanted? What would any of the things happening now even mean? That night, one more breakfast was too much. One more kiss, one more smile, one more laugh. He couldn’t stand the thought of it. What had changed that made him so desperate now?

He squeezed his eyes shut. He wished, ridiculously, that he wanted to die. But he didn’t. He wanted to live. He wanted mornings and breakfasts and kisses and love, for days and weeks and months and _years_. He wanted a lifetime.

Dean sighed and repositioned himself, nestling closer to Cas, seeking out his warmth. He rested his head just underneath Cas’ catheter, where a romantic would have placed his heart. The sun caught in his tarnished gold hair, lighting it up like a cloud burst. He was beautiful, a living artwork sleeping right on Cas’ chest.

“Cas…” he mumbled, a little crease forming between his eyebrows. Cas’ heart swelled.  He planted a gentle kiss to Dean’s forehead.

“I’m here,” he promised him. Dean smiled lazily, the frown disappearing. Cas’ vision started to blur. For half a second he started to panic, but then the tears spilt down his cheeks and he realised it wasn’t some kind of horrible side effect. He was just crying.

It couldn’t ever last long enough, that moment with Dean in his arms, and the sun on their faces. Dean smiling because he knew Cas was there. It was too perfect to last. He knew Dean would move again, that his smile would fade. That in just a few hours Cas had to go back to the hospital again. Cas couldn’t find it in himself to care. He felt like he could curl up in that moment forever. It would reach out on and on for all his life.

He had never believed in heaven. But if he did, that moment was what it would be.


	8. The Deep Breath Before the Storm

Exactly a week after the gig, Cas ran a hand through his hair and a chunk got caught between his fingers. It fell in a dark brown swathe down to the sink. It was about the size of a mouse. He twisted in the mirror with his toothbrush hanging out the side of his mouth. There was more of it coated in a thin layer on the back of his pyjama shirt, too.

“Fuck,” he hissed. He spat out his remaining blood-flecked toothpaste foam and twisted in the mirror again. He couldn’t tell how bad it looked. He was too scared to touch it again in case more of it fell out. From the front, his hair looked roughly as bad as the time where he’d tried to put layers through himself. It wasn’t so bad. He could pull it off, maybe, if no more of it came out.

He glanced out of the window. It was frosty; definitely justifiable as hat-wearing weather. Dean would probably still notice. Cas took a deep breath. He was sure he had a beanie somewhere. Gabe had one.

He just had to make sure no more fell out today. After that, Dean was going to visit his brother, Sam, for the weekend. Then it was Thanksgiving. That gave Cas, what, just under a week? And after that was when Dean would leave him. Either because of the cancer, or because Cas hadn’t told him.

It was going to be obvious as soon as the rest of his hair was gone. It was going to be like walking around with a huge neon sign flashing on the top of his head. Everyone was going to know. Not just Dean, not just Gabe. Everyone who walked past him on the street. The people serving him at checkouts. People who delivered his post. Neighbours. Bus drivers. Cabbies. _Everyone_.

Cas took a long, deep breath, and turned his back on the mirror.

 _Keep the hat on, don’t freak out_ , he chanted to himself mentally. Gingerly, he removed his t-shirt. The insertion point of his catheter finally looked like it was starting to heal. That was something, at least.

Cas got in the shower, trying to keep his hair from getting caught under the stream as he sat down on the floor. Standing was tiring, and he knew he would have to do a lot of it when he went over to Dean’s place; standing in the kitchen when the kettle was boiling; standing in the hallway whilst he took off his coat. Had he managed to do those things for his whole life without noticing how massively energy consuming they were?

He could taste copper over the now-familiar chemical taste in his mouth. He spat blood onto the white tiles and watched it swirl around the plughole before it disappeared. There was a sore above his teeth that he knocked whenever he brushed them, and it always bled lots. He was supposed to tell the nurses about it, but he didn’t. He couldn’t hide the puking, so he hid the bleeding instead.

He was worried that three side effects would mean he had to be admitted. He at least wanted to wait for Dean to break up with him before he allowed that to happen. He refused to become the image he had in his head of cancer patients. He wouldn’t take this lying down, staring meekly out of the window, chained to his hospital bed by wires and machines that counted down the minutes to his death like the climax of a New Year’s Eve party.

No. He did more that he could manage to do. When he wasn’t forcing himself to attend band rehearsals or give his boyfriend blowjobs or laugh at jokes or go out for coffee or walk from Michael’s back to his and Gabe’s because the bus was too expensive, he slept. He slept through his chemo sessions. He slept through five-minute cab journeys. He slept with a sticky chin with his head resting against the inside of Dean’s thigh. His ability to and enthusiasm for sleeping was reaching epic levels. The near-insomniac of his yester-year would have been equal parts impressed and disappointed.

When Cas arrived at Dean’s, he had a beanie pulled down over the tops of his ears. Dean raised an eyebrow when he answered the door, but otherwise didn’t remark on it. They sat on his couch.

The floor of Dean’s small living room was covered in sheets of paper. He was trying to get the bulk of a written assessment out of the way before he went to Sam’s, but it didn’t seem to be going well. Cas, who hadn’t had anything to do with academic work since he dropped out of college four years ago, sat sniggering at him as he rifled through his things. When he was concentrating, Dean stuck the very tip of his tongue out of the corner of his mouth.

Dean held the draft of his assessment up to Cas’ face. “What do you suppose ‘engage more with primary sources’ is about?”

“Well, I’d hope it was referring to the assessment.”

Dean scowled and threw the marked draft aside. “I don’t know what the fuck it’s supposed to mean. There isn’t space in one thousand five hundred words for me to engage more,” he lamented.

“Maybe they want you to take pictures of car crashes and point out injuries?” Cas suggested.

“Ugh. That’s in poor taste.”

Cas bit his lip to stop himself from laughing.

“There’s no room for anything else. The entire thing gets eaten up by the footnotes,” he grumbled.

“Pick stuff with shorter titles?”

Dean smacked a hand to his forehead. “Genius idea. Why didn’t I think of that?” he jibed. He clambered up onto the couch beside Cas, cuddling into him. “There’s no way I’m going to finish this before I leave. That’s my Thanksgiving gone.”

“You could always stay here?” Cas suggested wistfully. Maybe he could negotiate an extra day. Maybe he’d be able to see him bare one last time, before he turned away.

“Sammy would be heartbroken. He’s always been a whiny bitch about this sort of thing,” Dean huffed, kissing the back of Cas’ neck. “Mm. I’ll miss this though.”

Cas’ breath hitched. His stomach twisted, and for a moment he thought he might throw up. He didn’t. It was purely an emotional kind of twisting.

“Don’t go then,” Cas suggested again, leaning around to press his lips to Dean’s.

“What’s with you?” Dean asked, pulling back from him. He tucked a strand of hair under the edge of the beanie. “And what’s with this hat?”

Cas’ cheeks flushed hot. “I’m cold.” Not a lie. He _was_ cold.

“You’re a bad liar,” Dean told him.

“I hope not,” Cas muttered.

Dean dropped his gaze to his hands. He slipped off the couch and started sifting through the papers again. Cas settled against the couch, leaning over the arm, watching him. He liked the way that Dean moved. He always seemed so sure of himself.

“It’s just a few days,” Dean said wistfully. He turned back and looked at Cas, his eyes wide with concern. “It’s not long.”

“No,” Cas agreed. He tried to swallow past the lump in his throat but he couldn’t. Instead, he rolled onto his back and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, Dean was hovering directly above him, the light from the lamp behind him illuminating his hair around his head like a halo. Cas yelped.

“You should warn me when you’re going to appear in my field of vision like that. It’s disarming.”

“Cas,” Dean said. There was a reverence in his voice that made Cas’ heart pick up speed. “You’re beautiful.”

“Not standing next to you.”

Dean blushed, dipping his head bashfully. “Hey, Cas. I was being serious.”

Cas sighed. “So was I.”

Dean lifted his head, eyes glistening as they searched Cas’. Cas felt like Dean would know everything about him, looking into him like that. All the pretences and the laughing and the trying to be okay; none of it mattered. Dean would just know.

Cas felt his face crumple. He spluttered. “I’m sorry I’m such a fucking mess,” he blurted out.

Dean put a hand on Cas’ cheek, but Cas wouldn’t dare meet his gaze again. “Hey. No, you’re not.”

Cas sobbed and let out a broken little laugh. “I am, though.”

“Maybe a little,” Dean agreed, smoothing his thumb over Cas’ cheekbone. “But so is everybody.”

Cas clung to him, shaking. “I’m still sorry.”

Dean kissed him, and it felt like a deliberate conclusion. It was the kind of hard, desperate kiss that was reserved for situations where those involved aren’t sure if they’re going to make it; together; apart; in whatever sense. “Cas,” Dean gasped, his voice ragged and every bit as desperate as his kiss.

Cas wasn’t sure if he could respond like he wanted. For the first time in his life, this felt like it meant something. Maybe it would be different if he’d not met him at the precise time that he had. Maybe they wouldn’t have clicked as well. Maybe all of Dean’s meaningful stares and hopeful smiles would have made Cas angry or annoyed and he wouldn’t have stuck around for more than an evening.

The only thing he’d ever had that was anywhere close to a relationship was with Balthazar, and that didn’t seem to count. They fucked, sure, but they were just friends in the end. Perhaps Cas had noticed on occasion the way that Balthazar’s gaze lingered on him, not like he was a piece of meat or like he wanted to be treated like one, but like maybe, just maybe, he thought that Cas wanted more from him than he was letting on.

Cas had never been interested. He’d never wanted to settle down or find ‘the one’ or fall in love. It sounded stupid and painful, and there were enough stupid and painful things in his life without going out and asking for more. Myeloma was stupid, too, and it was definitely painful. And Cas sure as hell hadn’t asked for that, either. So why, _why_ did knowing Dean was going to leave him make him want to curl into a ball and be consumed by time or cancer or whatever wanted him?

“Cas?” Dean asked again. He’d been lying in silence with his eyes pressed shut for maybe five minutes. Dean shook him gently.

“I want you to fuck me,” Cas whispered, still not opening his eyes.

Dean stroked his cheek, moving his body slightly away. “Where did that come from?”

Cas blinked. He was staring at the ceiling. “I don’t know,” he admitted. He sat up, looking Dean in the eye. “It’s true, though.”

Dean gulped. “I don’t. I don’t usually…”

Cas smiled. “I figured.” He sighed.

“It’s not that I wouldn’t.”

“I know.”

Dean rubbed the back of his neck, staring into the middle distance. “You’re tired,” he reminded him.

Cas sighed, leaning against the back of the couch. “Yeah. I am.”

Dean sat back next to him. Cas peered around but Dean seemed to be deliberately avoiding his gaze. “We could order pizza?”

Cas sighed again.

“What?” Dean demanded.

“Nothing. Pizza. Sounds good.”

Dean nodded. “Good.” He stood up and disappeared into the kitchen.

Cas curled his knees up to his chest and pressed his eyes against them. Why the fuck had he said that? He was stupid. He was a fucking idiot. Dean was probably going to leave him now, just because he was so entirely inept and inconsiderate and clearly had no idea of appropriate behaviour. A small part of Cas cried out that if it ended like that, at least Cas would know it was because he was shit, not because he was falling to pieces.

His back throbbed. It hadn’t hurt all week, really. He was keeping on top of his medication. It seemed to be helping, after all. It scared him, how much he was coming to rely on them. He was anxious for the hour leading up to his next dose, in case he was late or he missed it. Then what would happen? He knew what a mess it was if he didn’t take the anti-nausea stuff. Forgetting painkillers could only be worse. He was sure he wouldn’t be able to cope.

“What pizza do you want?” Dean asked, returning with two mugs of coffee so strong that Cas could smell it the moment he walked into the room. He took it and lapped greedily; it disguised the horrific chemical taste the chemo had stained his mouth with since the very first day. Dean smiled sadly, sat amidst his nest of papers, and ordered the pizzas on his phone once Cas had replied.

They sat in silence until the doorbell rang. Then they ate in silence, too. Cas chewed meekly at one slice then closed the lid on his box, abandoning it. Dean frowned, but didn’t raise the point. Cas almost wished he would. Almost.

“We could watch a movie?” Dean suggested.

“Sure.”

“What sort of thing do you want to watch?”

“Um,” Cas considered. He looked at Dean, eagerly waiting for his response, still sat on the floor below him. “You’re too cute, you know that?”

Dean’s cheeked flushed red immediately. “No,” he grumbled, dipping his head.

“Sorry for being a dick,” Cas added, looking at the floor too.

“No, you weren’t. I just wasn’t expecting that.” Dean shrugged. He looked up at Cas with a crooked smile. “I thought maybe you were going to open up to me about something.”

Cas chuckled. “That’s what I was suggesting.”

“Cas!” Dean barked, but he was grinning too. “You know what I mean.”

Cas looked away again. “Yeah. I know.”

“So…” Dean began. He cleared his throat. “Movie?”

“Eh. I don’t mind. I’m easy.”

Dean scoffed. “I wish.”

“Excuse me? Did I or did I not just offer myself up to you on a silver platter?”

“You looked like you were about to burst into tears!” Dean protested.

Cas frowned. “I did?”

“Yeah! Sometimes we’re talking and you get this glassy look and I know you’re shutting down on me. Fuck, I have no idea what’s going on in your head when that happens, but it sure as hell doesn’t seem good.”

Cas looked down at his hands, resting in his lap. He knotted his hands together. “Sorry.”

“Yeah, well,” Dean grumbled. “I guess I’ll just have to live with it.”

The sentiment made Cas’ heart flutter. “Thanks.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Whatever. Look. I hate making movie decisions; please, could you just tell me what you’d like to watch? _Please_?”

Cas laughed. “But this is so much fun!”

“You’re such a sadist!” Dean accused, scowling.

Cas sat up, biting his lip. “Oh yeah?”

Dean looked away, fidgeting. “No. Never mind. I’ll pick. We’ll watch the first thing I pick up off the shelf.”

Cas slid off the couch onto all fours and knocked Dean onto his back. He went over easily. Cas kissed his neck and he moaned. Cas straddled him, running his hands down Dean’s chest. When he reached the waistband of his pants, however, Dean grabbed Cas’ leather banded wrists and held them fast. Cas sat back, peering down at him, frowning.

“What’s gotten into you?” Cas asked.

“I don’t know,” Dean muttered.

Cas checked his beanie, his heart pounding. It was still there. There was still hair framing his face, too. “Do I look awful?” Cas squeaked.

Dean pushed him back gently so he could sit up again. “No! You couldn’t look awful if you tried.”

Cas laughed bitterly. “Oh, just wait and see.”

Dean scowled. “I’m not going to dignify that with a response. I’m just. I don’t want to do… anything like that tonight. Okay?”

Cas nodded dejectedly. It was the last night, though. Dean would say differently if he knew, Cas was sure of it. But that was exactly why he couldn’t know.

“Every time I’ve seen you it’s been like… god. You just show up and suck me off like you want to get it over and done with!” Dean said despairingly.

“What are you talking about?”

“Fuck.” Dean ran his hands over his face, pulling at his lower eyelids. “I don’t know. I just. I want you to know that’s not the only reason I like you. Right?”

Cas sighed, rolling his eyes. “I _know_ that.”

“Then why are you so determined to get me off at soonest opportunity?”

Cas shrugged. “I don’t know. I like that I can, I guess.”

“So, what? Are you just in it for that?” Dean asked. His voice was thin with anxiety.

Cas balked. “Of course I’m not.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes!”

Dean sighed. “Why do you keep acting like the world’s going to end when I leave?”

Cas glared at him. His heart was hammering hard in his chest now. Bang, bang, BANG. “I’m not.”

“You are. I’m coming back. I’m not dancing off into the sunset never to be seen again,” Dean sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fore finger and his thumb. “I really like you.”

Cas let out a shaky laugh. “I really like you too.”

Dean looked up at him and his expression changed to one of complete apology. “Oh, baby, why are you crying?”

Cas laughed again, shaking his head. “I don’t know.”

Dean wrapped his arms around him and held him close. “I’m right here. I’ll only be gone for a few days, I promise you.”

Cas held Dean back, burying his face in the slope of Dean’s shoulder up to his neck and sobbing. “I’m sorry,” he whined. He clutched fistfuls of Dean’s clothes and released them.

“Sh, it’s okay. It’s alright.” Dean rubbed Cas’ back as he crooned. They rocked gently back and forth, the movement slow and cathartic.

“Why are you so good to me? I’m horrible,” Cas mumbled into his skin.

“No you’re not,” Dean insisted. “You’re just having a horrible time.”

“I am,” Cas agreed. Dean squeezed him tighter.

In the end, they watched a horror film that wasn’t very scary. Cas fell asleep for about an hour in the middle of it, but it didn’t seem to affect his understanding of what was going on. Dean, on the other hand, slept through the entire thing from almost the exact moment he pressed play. Cas kept glancing over at him and chuckling.

He got up and rummaged around in his bag for his pills. One for nausea, two for pain, one for anaemia, one for something else that to couldn’t remember. He swallowed them dry and then shuffled to the kitchen for a glass of foul tasting water. He hovered by the sink, unsure if the vileness of it would make him throw up. It didn’t.

Dean was watching him in the doorway. He had a weird look on his face.

“What?” Cas asked, unable to gauge what he was thinking from his expression. It was unusual for that to happen. Cas thought of Dean as an open book.

“You look so…” he began. He shook his head. Cas braced himself, leaning against the fridge for support.

“So…?”

“Just. You.” Dean shrugged. “Everything about you.”

“What about it?”

Dean shook his head again. “You’re making me crazy.”

Cas laughed. “I don’t know if I should be flattered or offended.”

Dean smiled, but the weird expression didn’t completely fade. “Both.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is this alright? Yes? Okay? Publishing this is scary. Hope y'all enjoy it! x


	9. Catastrophe

Cas tossed in his bed. There was something watching him, leaning over his body with its breath hot on his face and scalding his skin. He couldn’t muster the courage to open his eyes and look at it, but the heat coming of its body was huge and red behind his eyes. Red like blood.

Cas felt his skin cracking and between the splits black tar oozed, thick and bubbling. It sludged through his veins and poured out of his mouth, drying on his chin in the heat of the monster looming over him. He spluttered and clawed against it, but his hands moved right through. He sat up, but the heat followed him.

Now that his eyes were open, the monster was invisible. It was dark and he was afraid, and he had to get up and run, but his body wouldn’t let him. “Dean!” he screamed, but Dean wasn’t there. The bed was empty. Cas was alone and he was burning from the inside.

He fell to the floor on his hands and knees, his head hitting the corner of the nightstand hard. His vision sparkled, and he couldn’t see out of his left eye anymore. He rolled onto his back, clutching his forehead. His hands came away smeared with his black blood. He crawled across the carpet, leaving a splattered trail.

He had to put out the fire or it was going to kill him. He clambered into the shower cubicle and turned the water on cold. He yelped as ice pummelled against his scalding body, soaking his pyjamas in seconds.

“Cas?”

Gabe turned on the bathroom light. The blood was red, after all. It swirled in the water between Cas’ legs.  

“Cas, what are you doing?”

Cas tried to explain, opening his mouth with an explanation on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn’t shake the words free. He was shaking, his throat making a long, tragic sound. Gabe shut off the water.

“No,” Cas croaked. “The fire.”

“There’s no fire,” Gabe told him.

“I’m burning.”

Gabe put a hand on Cas’ cheek. “You’re freezing! The heating isn’t even on, fuck!”

“I’m burning,” Cas said again, his voice shaking.

“Cas, get out of the shower.”

“No,” he moaned, leaning against the tiled wall.

“God, you’re bleeding,” Gabe realised, kneeling so Cas could see his face. “You need to go to the hospital.”

“I don’t want to go back,” Cas cried.

“Back? What are you talking about?”

“To the hospital.”

“Come on, Cas. You’ve got to get out of the shower.” Gabe grabbed Cas’ arms and hoisted him forwards. His wet clothes screeched against the tiles. Cas’ knee hit the lip at the edge of the shower cubicle and he cried and shouted and screamed because everything hurt.

He lay on the tiles, unable to acknowledge Gabe talking around him, the world streaked in red and black. He couldn’t. Everything was blurred and too hot. It occurred to him that it was all over. That this was the end. It was typical, he thought. Of course, this would happen as soon as Dean was gone. He’d been banking on seeing him one last time before it happened. Now he was going to die alone and burning and soaking wet without even a goodbye kiss.

“I should have told him, I should have,” Cas muttered, almost incomprehensible.

“Should have told him what?” Gabe asked.

“Myeloma.”

“Your what?”

“No… myeloma. That’s why it’s happening. I’m dying. I’m dying.”

 

Cas opened his eyes. There were bright lights; disjointed, nonsensical sounds. It didn’t seem worth waking up for.

 

 

It was dark, he couldn’t breathe. He was drowning, drowning. Falling down.

 

 

Dean stood on the edge of the lake. Cas stood at the bottom of it. He screamed his name, but all that came out of his mouth was a string of bubbles. Dean didn’t hear him. He was holding a photograph in his hand. Cas wanted to know so badly what it was, but Dean couldn’t hear him. Cas was gone. Drowned. He would never see Dean again.

 

It was sunset.

The sky was streaked with watercolours. It didn’t look real. The clouds were fringed with rose gold, like a renaissance painting of heaven.

“You’re awake.”

Cas turned his eyes towards Gabe’s voice. He couldn’t make his head follow. Gabe looked exhausted; there were thick dark rings around his eyes and his hair was unwashed. Next to him, their mother was standing, her fur coat hanging open. When Cas met her gaze, she started to cry.

“I’m sorry,” he tried to say, but all that came out was a wordless moan.

“Don’t try to speak,” another voice said from the foot of the bed. Cas’ gaze flitted down to see his father, bearded face grave. “We nearly lost you for a minute there, son.”

Cas closed his eyes again. _No_ , he thought. _You lost me years ago._

 

 

“Castiel?”

His eyes flickered open. Dr Moore was standing over his bed, smiling softly. “Welcome back to the land of the living.”

Cas half closed his eyes again in response. “God.” His throat was ragged and sore. He couldn’t find the ends of his body. He felt like he was floating somewhere between the sheets.

Dr Moore laughed. “Quite.”

“What happened?”

“Your bloods went through the floor, that’s what happened,” she sat down next to his bed. “That’s quite a number you’ve done on your forehead there, too.”

Cas pawed the spot above his eyebrow and winced as his fingers met with fresh stitches. “I fell.”

Dr Moore nodded. “How are you feeling?”

“Floaty.”

She smiled, cocking her head to the side. “I hear morphine works wonders.”

“Morphine?” Cas raised his eyebrows. His voice was raspy and unrecognisable. “Did I win the lottery?”

“Make sure you write me into your will,” Dr Moore suggested with a nod.

Cas half-smiled.

“How would you rate your pain?”

“Three stars,” he croaked.

“That morphine is really going to your head, huh?” Dr Moore smiled.

Cas nodded, letting his eyes close. “My throat…” he gestured at it vaguely with his hand. The movement was too free. He didn’t feel the familiar shift of leather down his arms. He peered at the exposed white skin, the almost pearlescent flash of scar that went up to his elbow, marked either side with white dots from stitches. His father had been furious, he remembered.

“We had to intubate you.”

“What?”

Dr Moore sighed. “We had to have you on a ventilator for a few days.”

Cas coughed dryly. “Fuck.”

“You’re out of the woods for now, though.”

“For now,” Cas echoed.

“Whilst you were out, we did some more x-rays of your spine. The damage to your lower back is more significant than it looked on the ones we took earlier. As you’re here, we’d like to try a procedure called a kyphoplasty, where we inject a small amount of bone cement into the damaged vertebrae so that it returns to its full height.”

“What does it do?”

“It should reduce the pain, make you feel more comfortable moving around.”

“Do it,” Cas sighed, closing his eyes again.

“There are some risks involved.”

“Please, do it.”

Dr Moore was quiet for a moment. “Okay. We’ll go ahead.”

“Thanks.”

“It’s no problem, Castiel.”

“Cas,” Cas corrected with a smile.

“Cas,” she repeated. He heard her shoes clattering away, and nothing more.

 

 

The next time Cas found his way back to consciousness, Gabe was snoozing in an armchair next to his bed. The window had moved from the side of the bed to the end of it. He turned over fully towards Gabe. His throat ached.

“Gabe?” he croaked.

Gabe’s eyes flickered over. “Cas?”

Cas blinked at him, trying his best to smile.

"Do you want anything? Should I call a nurse?"

Cas shook his head minutely.

"Are you alright? God, I should call a nurse or a doctor, shouldn't I?" Gabe fussed. 

"I'm alright," Cas insisted. 

"No, you're not. You can't exactly hide it now you're lying there all, all..." Gabe’s expression crumbled. He covered his face, his shoulders shaking. "When I walked into the bathroom and found you sat there bleeding in the freezing cold, and I dragged you out and you were talking nonsense, I had no fucking idea what you were saying, fuck. And then you just. You just _went."_

Gabe was silent. He even seemed to be holding his breath. Cas' heart was thudding, and he couldn't keep it's frantic pace a secret because the heavy clip on one of his fingers trailed a wire to a small bleeping box just to the side of his bed. He felt more naked than he'd ever been in his life. His whole body was tense and aching like an exposed nerve. 

When he spoke, his voice trembled. “Gabe?”

"Christ, I thought you were _dead."_ Gabe shook his head, looking at Cas again with red rimmed eyes.

"I'm sorry." 

Gabe recoiled from him as though he'd just spat in his face. “Why didn’t you _say_ something?”

Cas sighed. He shifted in his bed. He back ached, different than before. He raised a tentative hand to his head, fingers grazing the unfamiliar smoothness of it. He grimaced. There was a thin tube wound over his ears, and he followed it to the point where it disappeared into his nose. The hospital gown he’d been dressed in was pulled down so that his catheter could hang free, one of its plastic ends attached to a red line. Cas followed it up to a bag of blood hanging over him.

“What should I have said?”

Gabe drew a sharp breath. “I don’t know. How about ‘Gabe, I have cancer’?”

The words made Cas feel cold right through to his core. He squeezed his eyes shut again. “Fuck you.”

“No, fuck _you_!” Gabe hissed. “I’m the one who’s been sat here all week not knowing if you’re going to wake up, fuck you! I’m the one who’s been telling you for weeks that I’m there for you, and the whole fucking time you’ve been lying to me!”

“I wasn’t lying to you,” Cas said tiredly.

Gabe looked livid. “Semantics.”

“Gabe…”

Gabe jerked his head away at the sound of his name. “Don’t say a fucking word.”

“I’m sorry.”

Gabe sighed, his shoulders slumping. He shook his head. “Fuck you, Cas.”

“I’m sorry,” Cas said again.

Gabe drew a sharp breath and lifted his chin. “Stop it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Shut up, Cas. I don’t want your fucking apologies,” Gabe mumbled.

“I’m still sorry,” Cas croaked.

Gabe nodded. “I’m still pissed at you.”

“Good.”

Gabe turned back to him, half smiling. “You’re such a dick.”

Cas grinned. “Guilty.”

Gabe scoffed, shaking his head. “I can’t believe you.”

“What do you mean?”

“I can’t believe you were having fucking chemotherapy and you didn’t tell me!” Gabe exclaimed. He slapped a hand against his forehead.

“Yeah, well,” Cas sighed. It hurt his chest.

Gabe’s face contorted with sympathy. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” Cas answered too fast.

Gabe looked hurt. “Cas…”

“Don’t,” Cas snapped. “I am. I’m fine. It’s shitty but I’m fine.”

“You’re not.” The pity in Gabe’s voice made Cas feel sick. Gabe was looking at him with the exact expression of twisted sympathy that Cas had imagined he would. That was it. That would be the expression Gabe would have whenever he looked at him. No amount of assurances would change it, and no amount of explanation would make it go away. It made Cas’ skin crawl.

“Shut up, Gabe,” Cas hissed through his teeth. “I said I’m fine.”

Gabe pursed his lips. “Okay.”

“Good.”

Cas gritted his teeth and shifted against his pillows. The pain faded fast. He peered up at the blood again, then at the plastic blossoming from his chest. “How long have I been here?”

“A week.”

“Fuck,” Cas groaned. “Dean. I was supposed to meet him for coffee. We were supposed to.” Cas strained to sit up, grimacing through the pain in his spine. A multitude of bleeping erupted around him and Gabe jumped to his feet, putting a hand on each of Cas’ shoulders.

“Whoa there, buddy,” Gabe said gently. “Take it slow.”

“Gabe,” Cas said desperately. Dean had no idea, he would think Cas had just dropped off the face of the earth. That last time they'd met, god, Cas had made such a prick of himself. Dean probably thought he'd run for the hills like the crazy person he'd so obviously made himself out to be. “I have to see him.”

“Not right now, you don’t,” Gabe said firmly. The weight of Gabe's gaze was going to suffocate him.

“Gabe, please!” Cas shoved Gabe's hands aside. It didn't take very much of a fight - which was a good thing as Cas didn't have much left in him - and Gabe's eyes flickered down to Cas' arms. He sat back down in his chair. Cas remained sitting up, poised forwards as though he was going to leap right out of the bed. The longer he sat like that, though, the more obvious it was becoming that he was never going to actually get up. Now he'd got that far, in fact, he wasn't sure he wanted to. 

He wasn't sure how long it had been since his meeting with Dr Moore, but the floatiness of that day was gone, replaced by heaviness in his limbs that made him think his bones were filled with lead. She'd said something about cement, hadn't she? He pictured his spine like a raw concrete post, steel reinforcements poking out of the top. 

Cas leaned back against the pillows again. 

Gabe drew a long breath. “It’s like eleven o’clock. He’s probably in bed. Give yourself a few more hours and you can sort it in the morning.”

Cas nodded. "You're right."

“Exactly. Besides, you’ve had a busy week lying motionless,” Gabe jibed with a grin. “You must be exhausted.”

“You’re such a dick, Gabe,” Cas huffed.

Gabe rolled his eyes. “Takes one to know one.”

Cas smiled and closed his eyes. “Gabe?”

“Yeah?”

“Go home.”

It was quiet for a moment. Cas opened one eye. Gabe was staring at him, conflicted. “I’m serious,” Cas warned. “Get the fuck out of here.”

“I don’t want to leave you,” Gabe admitted, fidgeting.

“I’ll still be here in the morning. Go home, shower. Sleep in your own bed.”

Gabe got to his feet. He paused before he got to the door, looking down at the screen of his cell phone. “Cas?”

“Yeah?”

He didn't look up from the screen. “You know I love you, right?”

“Go home, Gabriel.”

Gabe looked up and briefly met Cas' gaze. "I'll see you."

Cas smiled. "Yeah. Now get the fuck out of here before I call security."

Gabe smiled crookedly, and slipped out of the door.

Without him the room seemed much larger. There was a small lamp over his bed, with a little hanging cord that he could have reached quite easily if he ever found the will to move his arms. He felt very small, and very alone. 

The world outside the window looked completely black. All Cas could see in it was a blurred impression of his own reflection, the dome of his hairless head, the nakedness of his now-exposed arms. He fingered the scars, trying to turn his arms so that neither of them were showing. He couldn't do it. A small whimper of frustration escaped his lips. He looked so ridiculous. Everyone must have been tiptoeing around him for days, giving him strange sideways glances.

They couldn't have thrown his bands away, could they? 

Dean. Oh, _Dean._ What was he going to say? How could anyone possibly explain all of that?

Cas buried his face into his pillow. 

He wished he could turn out the light. 


	10. Liar

Cas read his text from Dean again.

_No worries, coffee tomorrow at 12? x_

He supposed that, to Dean, he’d only been off map for a couple of days. He’d been away, of course. There were only three unread messages for him when he’d turned his phone on. Dean was not worried. As far as he knew, there was no reason for him to be worried.

Cas knew that. He was relieved, yes. Hadn’t they gone farther than three texts for an entire week? Cas was certain he’d have tried harder to get in touch with Dean if he’d not showed up to a planned date. Anxiously, Cas shifted in his seat. Maybe Dean didn’t care. Maybe none of it meant anything to him. Maybe that curled up desperation that had begun to unfurl as soon as he’d started to get to know Dean was a lie. He didn’t know anything about relationships, really.

He scrolled up through the texts they’d sent each other since they’d met. There were surprisingly few of them. There were more from Dean than from him, Cas realised. This reassured him, but also made him feel like a dick. He _really_ liked Dean. Perhaps he’d not been making that as clear as he’d thought.

His phone starting ringing; the incoming call was from Michael. Cas stared at his caller ID for a food few seconds before summoning the guts to answer. “Hello?”

“Uh,” Michael said. Cas grimaced. Gabe had told him that Cas was sick, but that was all. Allegedly. “Hey, Cas. How are you feeling?”

“Like my bones are dissolving. Unless what you’re going to say is extremely important or interesting, I don’t care,” he answered brightly.

He heard Michael’s sharp intake of breath. “Oh, uh. I’m sorry.” He cleared his throat. “I’m calling with news.”

“News?”

“Yeah. Mr Crowley’s been in touch.”

“Oh?”

“You know _Party Shock_?”

“Michael. This is me you’re talking to.” If Cas had been asked four weeks ago who he’d wanted to be out of anyone in the world, his answer would have been Cole Gagarin, _Party Shock_ ’s lead vocalist. He was beautiful, talented, and Cas had idolised him since he was a thirteen-year-old boy. If he was asked the same question now, he’d tell you anyone but himself.

“Right, right. When you drop off the face of the earth with no warning I forget the little details,” Michael huffed. Cas grinned. He could always count on Michael to be a mindlessly self-driven, inward thinking fuck. It was startlingly refreshing. “They want a support act for their warm-up gigs before they tour.”

“And?”

“And they’re interested in us!” Michael fizzed.

Cas clutched the back of the seat in front of him, dizzied. “Michael. That’s insane. We only have two songs recorded and the sound quality is abysmal. How can they be interested?”

“Crowley’s been creeping through our YouTube channel. He ripped the audio and burned a rough copy of an album for them!”

Cas’ head was spinning. “Fuck, fuck.”

“I know!” Cas knew the exact smug expression that Michael would have on his face just from the tone of his voice.

“I’ll text you when I know more. This is it, man. This is our break!” Cas had never been so amazed by emotional range as by Michael. He was the only person Cas knew who could oscillate from hatred to glee several times inside a single conversation. Sometimes even in one sentence.

“Are you going to see your, uh, boyfriend?” Michael asked, in an abysmal attempt at small talk. One thing that Cas had noticed since people have begun to find out his Secret was that everyone had become very reluctant to end conversations with him. He had not expected that kind of sentimentality from Michael. Perhaps he’d not be able to rely on him after all.

Cas caught that thought and resigned it to the back of his head with the others. The ones about Gabe’s face whenever he thought Cas wasn’t looking at him. About his mother crying at the end of his bed, his father yelling about the costs of hospital beds and blood transfusions and how the hell was Cas expecting to pay for any of that if he didn’t have the decency to tell anyone?

“Cas?” Michael asked.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Cas grumbled. Three messages in a week was not a boyfriend. That much he thought he could work out.

“Sorry, I’ll rephrase that; are you going to see the boy you’ve been fucking?”

“Oh, Michael,” Cas sighed. “When you put it like that, I’d rather you’d call him my boyfriend.”

“Cool. Well, have fun with your boyfriend that you’re fucking.”

Cas laughed. “I shall.”

There was a pause where Michael should be saying goodbye.

“Does he know?”

“Oh for fucks sake,” Cas hissed, and he hung up the phone. He shoved it angrily into his pocket. He looked out of the window with ferocity, and the rain streaked streets packed with slow moving people in macs and umbrellas. Cas was glad of the rain. He’d be able to pull his hood up over his hat and further disguise his baldness.

Dean was waiting at the bus stop, leaning against the side of the shelter. He was unfairly handsome, hair tousled like he’d just crawled out of bed, leather jacket hanging open as though he was impervious to the cold, jeans slung low over his hops. He had earphones in, the white wire trailing across his chest not dissimilar from Cas’ catheter. The bus juddered to a halt, and Cas got to his feet.

Dean looked up and met Cas’ gaze as he made his way unsteadily down the bus towards the door. A million things rushed through Cas’ head at once. He didn’t know what he was going to say. What if the hat fell off? What if Dean noticed his hair anyway? What if he didn’t? Would he ask where he’d been all week? How should he answer? Should he tell him the big things then work through the details or traverse the issue chronologically?

Cas gripped the edge of the doorway, reluctant to step off the bus. It made everything feel to concrete. Dean stepped over and offered Cas a hand. Cas met his leafy gaze, and took it.

“Hey you,” Dean said, and he pulled Cas close as soon as his feet touched the floor.

Cas’ face went red and he nuzzled it against Dean’s neck. “Hey,” he replied. “It’s good to see you.” It was, of course, the understatement of the year. _I thought I was never going to feel your lips on mine again. I thought I was going to die and you wouldn’t notice._

Dean pulled his head back to press a small, gentle kiss on the end of Cas’ nose. He released his shoulders, but took one of Cas’ hands captive instead. Cas’ heart thudded with happy enthusiasm. What did that mean? _Three texts_ , he reminded himself grimly. _That boy you’ve been fucking._

“I missed you too,” Dean sighed, squeezing Cas’ fingers. With his free hand, Cas rearranged his hood and repositioned his beanie. Dean watches, an eyebrow raised. He smiled crookedly and Cas’ cheeks flushed again.

“So, how was Stanford?” Cas asked.

“You remembered?” Dean seemed genuinely surprised. Cas kept his gaze fixed on the sidewalk. “It was great. I’ve really missed Sam; it was great to see him.”

“You two close?” Cas asked.

Again, Dean seemed surprised by the question. Had Cas been so introverted before? He racked his mind for what he knew about Dean, really. He was funny. He liked shitty horror films. He wanted to be Batman. He was good at giving head.

“We used to be, when we were growing up,” Dean explained with a shrug. Cas wanted to study his face to try and unpick that sentence using Dean’s unusual expressiveness, but they had reached the coffee shop.

Dean dropped Cas’ hand and his fingers burned from the loss. He did hold the door open for him, which made him feel a little better about the hand-dropping but not enough to settle the churning in the pit of his stomach. He worried he might puke, but he’d finished his first course of chemo. Now he had a two week break before it started all over again. Dr Moore compared his treatment to waves coming up a tide. Cas supposed it was as apt a comparison as any, especially if you imagined the beach to be covered with pristine white sand and the sea to be made of corrosive acid that slowly destroyed the beautiful veneer to reveal rusted iron and tar pits underneath.

They sit down at the table by the window, the same one they’d sat in the first time they’d gone there together. It was clear from Dean’s slightly pained expression that this had not escaped his notice. At least it would be narratively satisfying, Cas supposed, if it were to come to an end right there.

“So, what did you do at your brothers?”

Again, Dean seemed so surprised that the question was being asked that he was unable to answer for a moment. Cas settled into his chair. So far, his back had improved. He was still taking a lot of painkillers, though. That seemed like something that was unsustainable.

“I ate crappy food, drank crappy booze, slept until the afternoon,” Dean shrugged. “Same as usual, just with a change of scenery.”

Cas rolled his eyes. “Did you have fun?”

Dean looked out of the window. “Yeah. Like I said, seeing Sammy. Definitely a good thing.”

“Do you wish you went out there more often?”

Dean whipped his head back around. He was frowning. “Huh?”

“To visit your brother, I mean,” Cas clarified.

“I think he’d get sick of me,” Dean explained with a grin. It was short lived.

“What’s he like?”

Dean actually shook his head. “Why are you asking me this stuff, Cas?”

Cas balked. “What?”

“You’ve never cared about any of this stuff before.” Dean folded his arms across his chest.

“I have,” Cas protested. He knew he had no defence.

“You even came out to drinks with my friends and you haven’t asked about them once,” Dean pointed out, shaking his head again.

Cas squeezed his eyes shut. “I’ve had a lot on my mind?”

“Yeah?” Dean sounded annoyed. “That makes two of us.”

They sat in stony silence for a while, and then a waitress that wasn’t Jess came over and took their order. When their coffees arrived, Dean spoke again. “You normally get a medium.”

Cas peered into the gigantic vat of coffee that the shop described as ‘large’. “Yeah. I’m remembering why.”

Dean half smiled. “Sam’s really tall.”

“Taller than you?”

“Way taller,” Dean said with a grin. “Like, sasquatch kind of tall.”

“Seven foot?” Cas asked.

Dean laughed. “Practically. Kid’s a fucking monster.”

“What does he study?”

“Law.”

“Oh, wow,” Cas raised his eyebrows, impressed. Dean’s gaze flitted across his face, around his ears, at the total absence of hair. It was the first time Cas had felt scrutinised since he left the hospital. “Yeah,” he breathed, staring down at the table.

“What happened?”

Cas swallowed, his throat suddenly dry and raw like they’d just taken him off a ventilator again. Something manic rose in him, and he reached up to the hat. He could just rip it off, and then it would be over and done with. Why not there, in the window? Everyone would see eventually, anyway. Why not just do it there?

“It’s alright,” Dean mumbled.

Cas released the breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. He let his hand flop down onto the table. Dean frowned at the sleeves of Cas’ thick sweater. “No bracelets?”

Cas shuddered. They had told him they were filthy and falling apart. They had told him they were unhygienic. “Lost them.”

“Dude, you even wear them when you shower.”

Cas looked out of the window, tugging his sleeve down over his hands. He should have caught an earlier bus and bought more before he’d gone to meet him. There were lots of people with huge plastic shopping bags. It was almost Christmas. Of course. He’d missed Thanksgiving. Of course. Who was he kidding? He couldn’t have made it down the street.

“Cas? You alright?”

Dean covered Cas’ hand with his. Cas gripped it tight, pressing his eyes shut tight.

“Yeah, I’m alright,” Cas said, but his voice was shaky. He knew it didn’t sound very convincing.

Dean took a deep breath and smoothed his thumb over the back of Castiel’s hand. “Anything good happen whilst I was away?”

Cas smiled and dipped his head. He could feel tears welling up in his eyes. He wasn’t sure if Dean had designed that question to be one Cas could answer both easily and truthfully, but he didn’t care. “Actually, Seraphims got signed.”

“What! Are you serious?”

“Uh-huh.”

“That’s great!” Dean exclaimed. He stood up as much as the table would allow and leaned across it to kiss him.

“It’s pretty crazy,” Cas agreed.

“Jo’s going to flip.”

“She probably already knows. She’s such a fan that she actually has some kind of weird sixth sense about my music career.”

Dean laughed. “Well, I wouldn’t have met you if she wasn’t.”

“What do you mean?”

“She dragged me out to one of your gigs, and flirted with this guy who she somehow knew was friends with your brother,” Dean laughed again, throwing his head back that time. “And then a party at your place got mentioned, to which we were invited.”

“So that whole thing when you asked my name was bullshit?” I accuse, laughing.

He looked off into the middle distance for a moment in a pantomime of contemplation. “Yeah, pretty much.”

Both of them giggled for a moment. Cas stretched his legs beneath the table. The toe of his DM’s found the side of Dean’s sneakers. They crossed ankles.

“Hey, you know the night we met?”

Cas trailed his eyes from Dean’s eyes down his chest. “Mm?”

“What was with you?”

Cas’ eyes locked on Dean’s collar bone. “What do you mean?” The words were hollow

“You fainted, or fell. I don’t know,” Dean shook his head. “

“Huh.” Cas was buying time. Every second Dean didn’t know was precious.

“I know I’m an idiot, Cas, but I’m not completely stupid. There’s something going on, and it’s not good. It’s hurting you.” Dean grimaced. “I want. I want to help. I can’t help if I don’t know.” Dean’s voice was so low that it was almost a whisper.

Cas’ heart thudded. He thought he might throw up. He met Dean’s gaze, sure and steady. What a beautiful man he had discovered. Beautiful all the way through to his soul.

“I don’t want to tell you,” Cas whispered.

Dean nodded, his shoulders slumping.

“Not here,” Cas squeaked.

Dean looked around. His eyes settled on Cas again. He nodded. “I’m sorry.”

Cas shook his head. “No, it’s alright,” he said, his voice remarkably even and calm. Maybe even reassuring. He reached across the table again, brushing his fingers across Dean’s knuckles, white over the handle of his coffee mug. Something stirred in the air between them, or maybe in Cas’ head. It was almost dizzying. Dean didn’t look the same. Cas hadn’t really been looking before, obviously. Whatever it was that changed, Cas looked at Dean and saw him clearly for the first time.

“What?” Dean asked, as though he’d felt it too.

Cas shook his head. He stared at Dean, with his tawny hair and his freckles and his lips and his gorgeous eyes. It wasn’t fair. None of it was fair. Dean was devastating. Cas found, suddenly, that none of it mattered. Dean could have looked like a trashcan and it wouldn’t have mattered a single bit.

Dean gulped. Cas watched his Adam’s apple bob up and down.

“Let’s go,” Dean whispered.

“Yeah,” Cas agreed.

They’d barely touched their drinks.

They didn’t touch in the car back to Dean’s place. They walked up the stairs two feet apart. Cas had to keep stopping, peering up at Dean with silent apologies as he leaned over the railings to breathe. Dean said nothing, either. Their footsteps echoed up to the skylight above them.

Dean held his front door open. Cas wondered if he might kiss him then, but he could still feel it between them, a solid barrier, impossible to traverse. They stepped out of Dean’s tiny hallway and into his kitchen. The space was small, only just enough space to comfortably accommodate the two of them without touching one another.

The sun was setting.

“Dean.” Cas’ voice was loud. Strangely, it didn’t seem to break the distance between them. It made it deeper.

“Cas,” Dean replied.

Cas’ heart was beating so hard and fast he swore that Dean ought to have been able to hear it.

“You’re thinner,” Dean said simply.

“Yeah,” Cas agreed. He swallowed thickly.

Dean grimaced. “Cas?”

Thud, thud, thud. “Yeah?”

“What are we doing?” Dean took a step towards him as he spoke.

Bang, bang, BANG. “I don’t know.”

Dean stopped a foot away. “That fucking hat.”

“I know,” Cas whispered. He closed his eyes.

“No,” Dean protested. “Look at me.

Cas obliged. He was breathing ragged, open mouthed. He was shaking. He could feel his muscles aching with the effort. A whimper bubbled to his lips and a look very close to actual pain flitted across Dean’s features.

“You’ll leave me,” Cas said.

Dean shook his head.

“You won’t want me anymore.”

“I want you,” Dean promised.

Cas inhaled sharply. He pulled his parka more tightly around himself.

“Are you cold?”

Cas shook his head. The kitchen was warm, especially in his coat. He was only afraid. 

Dean pulled the zipper on the parka down. He let it stay hanging open for a few moments, then he pushed it off Cas’ shoulders. He let the sleeves slide over his arms and hands without protested. The zipper clicked against the tiles.

“Dean…” Cas said weakly.

“Don’t,” Dean insisted.

Clang, clang, clang. Cas’ heart was like a church bell in his chest. “Okay.”

Dean toyed with the hem of Cas’ sweater for a moment, then peeled it off him with his t-shirt attached. He was careful not to knock of Cas’ hat. Dean dropped the clothes from his hands and they pooled between their feet.

Dean’s fingers were trembling, hovering an inch or so away from Cas’ skin. He took a breath, to steady himself, and then made the contact. Cas gasped. Dean’s cool touch was a relief. Cas shivered.

Dean smoothed his hands down the front of Cas’ torso and made him shiver. He moved his hands closer and started to smooth again, coming to an abrupt halt right above the catheter. He took a tiny step closer, keeping his left hand still, and sliding the right one all the way around to the small of Cas’ back, right over the spot where the myeloma was the worst. Cas could hardly breathe. Dean’s touch was gentle and controlled, as though he knew exactly what he was doing. The slight pressure of Dean’s palm against the ignorable constant throb in his spine was quite comforting.  

Then, again with deliberate care and slowness, Dean bent forward and pressed a light kiss to the clear dressing over the insertion of the catheter. Cas’ breaths came back in a whoosh. “No,” he said breathily.

“No,” Dean repeated firmly.

Cas shuddered. He could find no room for argument in Dean’s unwavering gaze.

Dean sank to his knees. His eyes fixed on the insides of Cas’ wrists. Cas fidgeted, pressing them to his thighs. Dean ignored him. Instead, he undid the button on Cas’ jeans and slid them down to his ankles. Cas lifted his feet out of them obligingly, and then did the same with his underwear. Dean ran his hands up Cas’ sides, from his heels all the way up to his neck. The skin where he’d touched tingled, as though his fingers had left trails of static in their wake.

Dean stood back from him, and took off his own clothes too. Moonlight poured through the skylight and sapped the bronze tone out of Dean’s skin. Both of them looked grey scale. Cas was silver, and Dean was misty grey.

Dean stepped close again, this time reaching out with only one hand. Cas closed his eyes and balled his hands into fists, bracing himself. Dean pushed the hat off his head. Cas felt it ghost against the curve of his ass. It didn’t make a sound when it hit the floor.

“Cas,” Dean said quietly.

Cas’ breath hitched. He couldn’t bring himself to open his eyes.

“Yes?”

“You have cancer, don’t you?”

Cas swallowed hard.

“Cas?”

“Shut up, Dean,” Cas said, his breath ragged. He bent over and yanked his jeans back on and started to reach for his sweater.

“Cas-”

“Shut up!” Cas yelled. He fumbled with his sweater, t-shirt still stuck inside. “Fuck, fuck, FUCK!” He threw it back on the floor.

“Stop it!” Dean begged.

“Why? So, you can tell me you don’t want me? So, you can quietly ask me to leave?” Cas’ eyes were burning. At what point, had he ended up on the ground. Dean was still standing in the same spot, as though he’d been frozen.

“I don’t want to ask you to leave.”

“I’m grotesque! I lied to you, I led you on, and I’m _disgusting_ ,” Cas laughed bitterly. “Just look at me.”

Dean shook his head. Tears streaked glittering lines down his cheeks. “You’re not disgusting.”

“I’m a liar! I’m a liar,” Cas moaned. He curled his knees against his chest and rested his forehead against them. He ran his hands over his bald head, curling his nails against his scalp and scratching, _scratching_ -

“Hey.” Dean caught Cas’ fingers and gently pulled his hands down to his sides. He looped his arms around Cas and pulled him close. He cradled him against his chest. Cas pressed his ear to the warm skin and listened to the even thud of Dean’s heart, and cried, his voice hoarse and angry, his chest aching and trembling with every sob. Dean said nothing. He just held on.


	11. The Same Coin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been a while since my last update, I've not been very well these past weeks and then I tried to do too much so now I'm completely wiped out, woohoo! 
> 
> WARNING: This chapter is very NSFW.

Cas’ guitar was by no means cheap, but looked humbled in the waiting room of recording suite, next to photographs of other bands that had recorded there. Not least, _Party Shock_. He smoothed his hand over the curve in its side, stroking the white lacquered wood.

Michael finally emerged from the office, where he’d been since Cas arrived. Gabe following him out, keeping his gaze on the carpet. Michael froze when he saw Cas. Cas felt Michael’s eyes all over him. He cleared his throat.

“Nice hair.”

Gabe looked mortified, lifting his head with a stricken expression on his face as though Michael had just spanked him in front of his grandparents. Cas grinned.

“Thanks. I'm going for a sort of neo-Nazi look.”

“I hate to tell you this, but I’m not sure they’d be into your boyfriend,” Michael said gravely.

“Nonsense.” Cas sat up a little taller. “ _Everyone_ is into my boyfriend. He’s positively godlike.”

“Really, Cas?” Gabe sighed. “The Ken-doll?”

“He’s rugged,” Cas disagreed defensively. He could tell from Gabe’s stiff posture that he was trying hard not act oddly. Cas appreciated the effort, but it looked exhausting. “What was happening in the very-official-looking room?”

“We’ve been locking stuff in to record the album. I thought we’d do Dog Fish, maybe. I’d like to hear the new thing you’ve been working on before we make any decisions, though,” Michael replied with easy but firm formality.

Cas felt his cheek flush. “I’ll need a couple of days before I’m happy with it.”

“A couple of days is live-able,” Michael supposed with a shrug. “Crowley wants it all official as soon as. He wants the whole thing recorded before we go on tour.”

Cas grinned. “So, it’s actually happening?”

Michael smiled with self-satisfaction so smug that the sun did, briefly, shine out of his ass. “It’s happening. This is not a drill.”

“Oh my god,” Cas gushed, clutching his guitar. “I’m going to meet Cole Gagarin.”

“Does your boy know?”

“I said I’d told him about the tour, didn’t I?”

“No, I mean that you’re going to leave him,” Michael explained.

Cas frowned. “What? I… I’m not…”

“Not even for darling Cole?”

Cas scoffed. “He’s straight. I’ve not got a chance.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Michael said conspiratorially. “’Boys like girls and boys, Castiel. Bear the lyrics in mind.” He tapped the side of his nose. “Anyway, point is, we have two months to get everything done, and then we’re on tour.”

Two months. Cas would have had another four rounds of chemo by then. He’d be halfway through the treatment plan that Dr Moore had explained to him. He gritted his teeth. He couldn’t be too sick. He couldn’t let it happen.

“How long is this tour, then?” Cas managed to force himself to ask.

“We’re only on the West Coast leg, so it’s only three weeks.”

That wasn’t so bad. He could negotiate an extra week of rest period between chemo rounds, he was sure. What would he look like by then? He was already a stone lighter, completely bald, and the colour of the surface of the moon. He couldn’t imagine it getting much worse, but he had a toe curling fear that it would. It was easy to plan it all right then, a few days into his first rest period, when his boyfriend hadn’t figured out that it would probably best if he left now, purely for reasons of damage control. He wasn’t throwing up or passing out or lying on his bedroom floor, too exhausted to get to his feet, so somehow it was easy to think around all those things. He could forecast three solid weeks of days like the day he was currently having. Good days.

“Earth to Cas?” Michael sighed, irritated.

“Sorry, I zoned out for a moment,” Cas admitted with a small smile.

“You feeling alright?” Gabe asked, his tone guarded and thick with concern.

Cas closed his eyes for patience. “I’m fine, I was just distracted.”

“Michael, maybe this whole thing is a bad idea,” Gabe mumbled.

Michael whipped his head around. “What the fuck are you saying.”

Gabe looked at Cas with wide eyes. “Maybe it’s not the right time.”

“Jesus, Gabe, get over yourself. This shit only comes around once in your life. You don’t get any second chances.”

Cas nodded. “Michael’s right.”

“But Cas,” Gabe whined. “You’re sick.”

Cas felt his nostrils flare involuntarily. “Gabriel. I’m _fine_.”

“I’m just saying-”

“What?” Cas snapped. “That I should lie down and die quietly?”

“No! Recording a whole album in two months and then going on tour is a lot of work, Cas! Most days you can barely make it up the stairs!”

Cas got to his feet. “I will do these gigs in a fucking hospital bed if I have to,” he spat.

“I don’t want you to fuck up your treatment, man!” Gabe growled back.

Cas shuddered. Last night, when he’d got back from Dean’s place, he’d finally caved and googled the name of his disease. The prognosis for Myeloma was not good. He’d had to stop after half a web MD page because it was going to make him puke. _A minority of patients live in excess of fifteen years._ A decade and a half would be a fucking miracle, whatever happened with his treatment.

“I’d rather still have my brother than a record deal.”

“Gabe,” Cas said firmly. “Enough.”

“No!” Gabe yelled. “Not enough! Cancer doesn’t mean a death sentence anymore! I will not let you make it one!”

Cas’ hands were balled into fists and they were shaking at his sides. He tried to remember that crap he’d been told for the brief time his dad had let him go to therapy. Fucking relaxation exercises. Breathe in, breathe out.

“Cancer?” Crowley’s wry, English voice wafted into the room. He strode out of the office a moment later. He was staring right at Cas. “Well, you’re full of surprises.”

It was decided, after much yelling and grinding of teeth, that they would use Cas’ illness as a marketing ploy. The idea made his toes curl, but the way Crowley had explained it, there wasn’t a lot else that he could do. He drew the line at making vlogs about it, though. He could barely muster the nerve to tell his loved ones, let alone people who didn’t even know him. He smoothed his hand over his bald head, grimacing. As if people wouldn’t have guessed right off, anyway.

He was walking to Dean’s place from the bus stop in town. It wasn’t far, maybe half a mile. He was feeling good despite the disaster, just because his symptoms were the most unnoticeable they’d been in months. He started off walking with a little spring in his step and everything. He smiled and habitually mouthed the lyrics to the songs playing through his earbuds.

After a while, though, his guitar started to feel heavy. The sidewalk in front of him stretched on endlessly. He could see Dean’s apartment building at the end of the street; he was so close; he could almost smell his bedsheets. His knees felt like they were creaking with every step. After another two, he came to a shuddering halt.

His heart was pounding, his breathing ragged. He steadied himself against somebody’s garden wall, letting his eyes fall closed. A cool December wind bit through his woollen hat and licked the exposed skin on his face and neck.

A car slowed beside him. He could hear the engine juddering as it idled. Cas couldn’t will himself to open his eyes. “Cas?”

Dean’s voice went straight to Cas’ heart. He blinked, turning his head minutely to see Dean leaning out of the window of his huge black car. He tugged his ear buds out. “Hi,” was about all he could manage.

“What are you doing here?”

“You said…” Cas began, voice trailing into nothing. He stared at the sidewalk.

“Do you need a ride?” Dean asked, grinning.

Cas smiled back. The car seemed miles away, parked at the curb side. Cas stared at the distance for a moment, then looked back up at Dean with wide eyes. Dean frowned, puzzlement colouring his cheeks. Then, slowly, realisation dawned as his expression went from confusion to pity. Cas’ guts twisted. He closed his eyes again.

The car door opened, and slammed shut again. He felt a hand on each of his shoulders, and then the weight of his guitar was gone. Cas watched Dean place the case carefully across the back seats of his car, and then he turned back to him with a wonky grin. “Do I have to carry you, too?”

Cas laughed. “Maybe.”

Dean rolled his eyes and held out a hand. Cas took a deep breath and took three steps towards him and almost collapsed into Dean’s arms. Dean chuckled. “Evening,” he sighed.

They drove the rest of the short way down the street. Dean carried Cas’ guitar through the lobby of his apartment building. Cas stared doubtfully up the stairs.

“Come on, baby,” Dean said softly. “You got this.”

Cas was certain he didn’t. It took him almost twenty minutes to get up to the apartment, chest heaving as he pulled himself up by the railings alone. When he got up there, finally, he fell onto Dean’s couch.

“Why…” he said between heavy pants. “Don’t they just… get a fucking… elevator?”

Dean chuckled. He handed Cas a bottle of beer. Cas smiled crookedly at it. “Um. Thanks.”

Dean frowned. “You not supposed to drink or something?”

Cas shrugged. “I don’t think one beer is going to make much of a difference.”

“You sure?”

“I don’t have the energy for this,” Cas grumbled. He handed the beer back.

Dean sat next to him. “Energy for what?”

Cas groaned. “Pity. Concern. I don’t know.”

Dean chewed his lip. “Hey, I made you walk up the stairs, didn’t I?”

Cas smiled. Suddenly his exhaustion didn’t feel so hideously insulting. “I guess.”

“So, how was your day as an unemployed layabout?”

Cas snorted. “Uh. My band got signed? Remember?”

Dean chuckled. “Oh yeah, because that’s a real job.”

“Hey. I’m sick.”

“No pity, remember?” Dean reminded him.

Cas stuck out his tongue petulantly. Dean smiled. The light in his living room seemed specifically designed to catch in his eyes and make them bright with a leafy glow. His skin was radiant too, bronzed and dappled with freckles, all thrown into perfect balance by his wonky smile and soft pink lips. It was obscene.

Cas blinked. He hadn’t forgotten Dean was gorgeous, of course, but it hadn’t been at the forefront of his mind. Now, it most definitely was. It was also at the forefront of his pants.

Dean swigged Cas’ rejected beer, lips puckering slightly around it’s around rim. Cas licked his lips. Dean saw him. He raised an eyebrow. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” Cas answered quickly. His cheeks were hot.

“Castiel Milton, did you just lick your lips at me?”

“Absolutely not?” Cas replied uncertainly. Dean put the bottle down on the coffee table with a clack, and turned to Cas, the full force of his gorgeousness almost overwhelming.

“Well, Cas, not for nothing. But the last time someone looked at me like that, I got laid,” Dean told him with a grin. “Just a little warning.”

“Oh, how strange,” Cas said, tilting his head. Dean’s eyes darkened. Cas’ pulse quickened again. It certainly looked a lot like desire.

“I’m not meaning to imply anything untoward, Cas. But the last time it happened, it was you.” Dean smirked, very pleased with himself.

With a sudden burst of energy and conviction that struck through him like veins from a crack in a pane of glass, Cas kissed him. Dean moaned as Cas straddled him, pressing down harder, knotting his fingers into Dean’s short blonde hair to get more traction and to eke out little desperate cries against his mouth. “Cas, please, please.”

Cas moaned, his tongue darted across the inside of Dean’s lips. Dean’s hands wrapped around him, pulling him closer, but then Dean’s hands were pushing instead of pulling.

“I want to shower,” Dean complained against Cas’ mouth. Dean moved and wrenched himself free. He took off his jacket, exposing the hospital scrubs he still had on underneath. The sight of them made Cas feel queasy, and for a split second he thought he could smell disinfectant and illness and it made him shudder. Dean frowned.

“Go, shower,” Cas instructed wearily.

Dean attempted a reassuring smile, but gave up and slunk away.

Cas considered following him. He could make it into the bathroom, he was sure. He could probably even get into the shower and slide his hands across Dean’s slick, wet skin. But he’d have to stay on his feet. He’d have to keep moving.

Hot desire twisted in the depths of his stomach. He was learning the limits of what he could achieve. It was a delicate balancing act. Either he walked to the shower to accost Dean, or he waited for him to come back and had the energy to get what he wanted out of him. Huffily, Cas slumped against the back of the couch.

Minutes tracked past. Horny and agitated, Cas fidgeted. He didn’t know how to work Dean’s TV and his cell phone was crappy and devoid of anything distracting enough to bother with. He thought about stripping off, lying there, touching himself until Dean returned. He would have not a month before. Now, though, he was too self-conscious of his newly protruding ribs and the smooth hairlessness of his body, of the blossoming catheter that sprouted out of his skin.

He unzipped his guitar case and pulled it into his lap. It was his hybrid – an electric acoustic – and its black body was smooth and slim. He could see his pale face reflected in its polished shoulder. He played a few lonely chords, disjointed from any tune or sense of melody. Then he started to play the new piece he’d been writing that week, since he’d got out of the hospital.

“ _I never knew before,_

_How empty beds could be,_

_How these rooms were meant for more than me._

_That there are spaces in my hands_

_For you to fill with your hands._

_I wish I hadn’t met you,_

_Because then I’d never know._

_I know a lot other people seem_

_To think that it’s a bad thing_

_But I wish I hadn’t met you,_

_Because now I don’t know how to be alone.”_

It was slower paced than anything else he had ever written, and his voice felt thin as he stretched it to hold over longer notes, but he didn’t mind. He thought that when his throat cracked and the melody stuttered with him, it made the song sound sincerer.

“That was different.”

Dean was standing in the doorframe, and he’d obviously been there for some time. His bronzed chest glistened in the lamplight, individual beads of water clinging and catching the light like glass. Cas felt his cheeks colour. He started to move the guitar aside, but Dean came over and curled his hands over Cas’, fastening his grip around its neck. He sat down behind him, resting his chin on Cas’ shoulder. His body was absurdly warm from the heat of his shower.

“Play something,” Dean encouraged.

Cas jerked his head around to look at him. He was smiling lazily, gaze trained on Cas’ fingers, still in the shape of an A across his strings. “What do you want me to play?”

Dean shrugged. “Anything.”

Cas took a deep breath, and started playing through _Dogfish._ “ _You eat me up, spit me out, strip me down;_

_You leave me out on the line to dry;_

_I can still feel your hook in my mouth;_

_But your promise was only a lie._

_I’ll never be what you want me to be,_

_I can only tell you the truth._

_I can’t honestly say you mean nothing to me_

_But it’s okay ‘cause I don’t have the proof.”_

“Who’s that one about?” Dean interrupted.

Cas played a bum note and grimaced. “What?”

“The song. Who’s it about?”

Cas shifted uncomfortably. “Ah. Someone I know.”

“Your ex?” Dean asked.

Cas moved to face him. Dean’s eyebrow was raised. “I guess. We were never really together.”

Dean pursed his lips. “He know that?”

Cas tilted his head to the side. “Are you jealous?”

Dean looked across the room. “No?”

Cas grinned. “You are. You’re jealous.”

Dean looked back, eyes shining. “Look. It’s just. That first song you were singing, when you didn’t know I was here?” Cas nodded. “I’ve never heard it before. It’s new, right?” Dean chewed his bottom lip. “It’s about me, isn’t it?”

Cas hesitated.

“It is,” Dean confirmed.

“I don’t wish I hadn’t met you,” Cas told him softly. He put the guitar on the floor, leaning against the side of the couch, and twisted so he had his legs around Dean’s waist. Then Cas took his face in both hands. “You’re too good for me.”

Dean scoffed. “Stop it.”

“It’s the truth,” Cas insisted. Dean flickered his gaze up to meet Cas’, and their eyes locked. Cas kissed him slow, revelling in the heat of him. Dean ran his hands up Cas back, fingers burning pleasure through his skin. Dean fell back, Cas suspended over him, kissing. Cas’ heart pounded and he steeled himself towards the coming exhaustion.

Dean’s towel had long since come unravelled beneath him, leaving him naked on the couch. He fought with the buckle on Cas’ belt with one hand, the long fingers of the other curled around his own erection. Cas took over, stroking lightly so Dean could tug his jeans down to his knees. Dean pushed him over, so Cas was the one spread eagled, and tore the jeans off the rest of the way. Next he went to remove Cas’ shirt, but Cas stopped him. “Leave it,” he insisted against Dean’s lips.

Dean looked like he was going to argue for a moment, then Cas brushed his thumb over the head of his dick and he shivered. “Okay,” he agreed breathily.

Cas grinned. “Good boy.”

Dean made small, animal sound and drew a ragged breath. He thrust into Cas’ fingers.

“Oh, you like that, huh?” Cas asked. He caught Dean’s bottom lip in his teeth and kissed him hard.

“Aww, _Cas_.”

Cas pushed against him, switching their roles again. Dean writhed against the red couch, still slightly damp from his shower. “The drawer,” Dean spluttered.

“What?”

“The drawer.” Dean gestured wildly to the side table by the arm of the couch. There was a small drawer under it. Cas slid it open and found, amongst miscellaneous items of stationary, a small bottle of lube and a pack of condoms.

Cas raised an eyebrow. “Did you plan this?”

Dean grinned. “Failing to plan is-”

He never got to finish the sentence, because before Dean had even opened his mouth, Cas had opened the lube, and he cut Dean off by nudging a finger inside of him. _“Fuck,”_ Dean spat. “Oh my god, _please._ ”

Cas raised his eyebrows in amusement at Dean’s sudden outburst, but Dean didn’t notice. He was biting his own lip, now, arms around his head, fingers grasping at the fabric of the couch. Any trace of amusement Cas had felt was erased almost immediately. Dean was wrecked, pleading and desperate. The more Cas gave, the more Dean wanted to take. He was begging shamelessly by the end, when Cas finally sunk into him.

“Oh, Cas, Cas!” Dean yelled, clinging onto him. Cas held steady. Dean squirmed around him, trying to plunge Cas deeper. Cas’ heart was pounding already. He hadn’t even moved. “Cas, please, fuck me,” Dean begged, winding his legs tighter around Cas’ hips and yanking him forwards. Cas almost fell, managing to save it at the last minute. Dean didn’t care. He whimpered with pleasure.

Cas’ arms were shaking. He rolled his hips once, twice. It had been _so long_ since he’d properly fucked anyone, and he could barely keep himself upright. His back throbbed, his knees ached. “Dean,” Cas gasped desperately. “I can’t.”

Dean snapped his eyes open, green gaze fixed on Cas. “Cas. I need you,” he pleaded.

Cas’ resolve crumbled, his head dropping to Dean’s shoulder. Dean looped his arms around Cas, and carefully, slowly, manoeuvred them so Cas’ head was resting on the arm of the couch. Dean sank down deeper onto Cas’ dick, and Cas gasped. Dean moved Cas’ hands, put each of them on his hips. Dean moved slow and careful at first, up and down, balancing himself with one hand against Cas’ shoulder.

Quickly, this measured control was lost and both of them were panting. Cas was overwhelmed, unable and unwilling to protest or resist. His hands roamed Dean’s chest, clawing red lines down from under his tattoo and around his nipples. Dean whimpered, touching himself in time with the movements of his hips.

Cas came first, digging his nails hard into the top of Dean’s ass. Dean threw his head back, revelling in it, then curled forwards. “Oh, _Cas_!” he cried, clinging to him as he came between their flush bodies. Cas held onto him, tight.

They were breathing ragged and out of time. When the floaty feeling of orgasm began to recede, Cas’ body felt heavy. His limbs were iron. The weight of Dean should have been comforting but was slowly becoming suffocating. He squirmed, and Dean moved away sleepily. Cas tore off his ruined shirt and threw it on the ground. He slumped back against the couch, closing his eyes.

“Cas?”

“I’ll be alright,” he said gruffly. He put a hand on his chest, under his catheter, feeling his heart hammer against it. He gulped the air, his mouth dry.

“Do you need something?” Dean sounded afraid. Cas shook his head, didn’t open his eyes. “Cas…”

“Just give me a minute,” Cas snapped.

Dean fell silent. “Sorry.”

Cas sighed. “Shut up.”

“Was it that bad?” Dean asked with sad amusement.

Cas frowned at him. Dean had his knees curled up to his chest. “It was great. You’re amazing.”

“Did I hurt you?”

Cas, softened, reaching out and brushing the pad of his thumb across Dean’s lower lip. “No. I’m alright. I promise.”

Dean took a deep breath. “Okay.”

Cas smiled. “Better now?”

Dean nodded, smiling back shyly, Cas’ thumb now pressed lightly against the corner of his mouth. “Are you?”

Cas laughed weakly. “Infinitely.”

Dean smiled wider. There was a moment hanging between them, where either of them could have said something. Neither did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone wants an idea of what Cas' new song sounds like, I took inspiration from this:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KYRFM-Xb-Fo&index=21&list=PLeSnHJqdxRxEbjSAjbIht8YCMdOaAhtUo
> 
> Dogfish sounds a bit like this:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z71df68qLp0


	12. Tipping Point

The next two weeks were some of the busiest of Cas’ life.

Every day, he, Gabe and Michael went up to the recording studio, and Cas pretended like he wasn’t exhausted until he was back in his room, with the door locked. Dean called often. He stayed on the line until Cas fell asleep. At some point, though Cas couldn’t ever quite remember when, Dean qualified as an EMT. He invited Cas out for drinks, but when the evening came, he was too exhausted to even call to apologise.

“Cas?” Gabe said softly. Cas didn’t open his eyes, but he frowned to show Gabe that he was listening. “Dean says don’t worry about tonight. He’ll see you soon.”

He was running himself into the ground, and he knew it, but he couldn’t find the will to stop. It was familiar, the sense of building gusto, the need to keep moving so that he didn’t have to think any more. These things had a snapping point, and he knew that. It just wasn’t in his nature to allow himself the time to think clearly.

Before he knew it, his rest period was over. He wondered how it had happened. He walked down the now familiar oncology corridor, smiling at the staff behind the reception, still in that empty daze he’d been in since they’d started recording. He took off his coat, unbuttoned his top shirt, and sat on the edge of the bed nearest the door, like he had on the first day.

“Morning, Cas,” the nurse said brightly. Her name, what had she said? Oh, yes.

“Good morning, Lisa,” he replied with a smile.

She undid the Velcro fastening on the blood pressure machine that was already next to the bed. Cas offered his arm and she slid it in place. The cuff swelled until it pinched his skin, and released.

“Am I still alive?” he asked.

Lisa flashed him a smirk. “Just about.” She snapped on a pair of latex gloves and he blinked. “It’s good to see you up and about again,” she said. She picked up a syringe of saline.

“I certainly think so.”

Lisa laughed. She flushed each of the lumens on his catheter, coolness spreading outwards through his chest. He gulped.

“How’s the band, then?” she asked. She hung the anti-nausea meds and the anti-biotics from his IV pole and he stared at them. “Cas?”

“Oh.” He blinked. “We got signed, actually.”

“Wow, that’s great!” Lisa said. She clipped thin tubes to two of the lumens and attached them to the bags, hanging obese with fluid. “You know the drill, sweetie. I’ll be back in half an hour,” she promised him. She drew the curtain around the bed, and left him on his own.

Cas looked down at the wires, gaze trailing up slowly to the back. He was almost overwhelmed by an urge to rip them right out of his chest. He heard someone else in the room cough dryly and ran a hand over his face. How had he wound up back there again? Surely it was all a mistake. Yesterday, he’d been playing guitar in the recording studio of a successful record label. How the fuck had he ended up back there.

“Cas?” Lisa peered around the curtain. He looked up, blinking the mistiness out of his eyes. “There’s someone here for you.”

“Dr Moore?” he asked, frowning.

Lisa shook her head and pulled the curtain a little wider. Cas felt himself crumbling. Dean smiled his most dazzling grin. “Hey.”

“I found him loitering in the reception,” Lisa informed them, shooting Dean a sideways glance. “You think you can keep him out of trouble?”

“Aww, Lisa,” Dean complained through a smile. “You know me better than that.”

“Ten minutes, Cas,” Lisa told him.

“What are you doing here?” Cas whispered. Dean was wearing his leather jacket over a thick knitted jumper. His hair was wet.

“I just got off a shift.”

“It’s ten in the morning,” Cas pointed out, shaking his head.

“Yeah. I’ve been getting the most godawful hours,” Dean admitted, letting his smile slip and revealing his exhaustion. He trailed a cool hand down Cas’ cheek.

“How did you know I’d be here?”

“You told me you didn’t have any appointments until today, remember?” Dean reminded him. Cas didn’t remember. “I didn’t know what time, though. I thought I’d just come up and ask. Lisa said they keep you here all day.”

Cas’ shoulders slumped. “Yeah.”

Dean looked around, eyes following the tubes from the IV down to where they disappeared under Cas’ shirt, the mirror of his own action moments ago. Dean shifted his weight. Cas looked at the floor.

“Do you want me to go?” Dean asked, voice distant.

Cas looked up. “There’s puking.”

“I can cope,” Dean promised.

“It takes a long time,” he warned.

“I thought maybe we could go down to the café for lunch.”

Cas tilted his head to the side. “I refer you back to the puking.”

“I already checked with Lisa.”

Cas narrowed his eyes. “You know her.”

Dean cracked a smile. “Yeah. We knew each other in high school.”

“In the biblical sense?”

Dean frowned and mimicked Cas’ posture. “Yes.”

Cas blinked and folded his hands in his lap. “Well then.”

“Well then,” Dean concluded. “You going to let me take you to lunch, or what?”

“Did anyone ever tell you that you’re a stubborn bastard?”

“Quite frequently, actually,” Dean answered with another dazzling smile.

Cas sighed in defeat. “Fine. You can take me to lunch. You’ll be seeing it twice though. Consider yourself warned.”

Dean accepted this with a roll of his eyes.

Lisa stuck her head around the curtain. “You,” she said, pointing at Dean. “Out of the way.”

She had them on a tray, the harbingers. The little bags of doom. Cas’ stomach curled in anticipation. He’d almost forgotten, but there was no way that kind of thing could ever get completely out of your head. He’d been feeling so good these past two weeks. They were going to ruin it all.

Dean’s hand found Cas’. “You want me to wait outside?”

Cas turned to him, sudden rage rising in his throat. He swallowed it and shook his head. Cas lay back and closed his eyes. He could feel slight tugs against his catheter now and then, but Lisa worked quickly. She and Dean made small talk. Cas lay there like a corpse and held Dean’s hand like it was the only thing stopping him from floating adrift.

“Okay, Cas. I’ll come check on you in a bit,” Lisa promised.

“Thanks,” he replied gruffly. He rolled onto his side just as the curtains closed around the bed again. Dean sat down in the chair beside him, smiling fondly. “You look tired.”

“So do you,” Dean countered. He yawned. “I’ve not slept since Saturday night.”

“That’s shit.”

“I’m the new boy, so they can afford to give me the crappiest hours. I’m the lowest in the pecking order,” he shrugged. Even though he had dark rings around his tired eyes, he was every bit as gorgeous as the first day Cas had seen him. Cas felt small and frail on the bed. He sat up and repositioned his pillows. Dean watched with quiet caution.

Before long, that creeping sense of discomfort began to spread through Cas. He felt lethargic but unable to settle. He lay on one side and then the other, and then perched on the edge of the bed. Dean was dozing, watching whenever Cas moved through half opened eyes. Cas felt bare and ashamed. He wished Dean would stop looking at him.

He got to his feet and held onto his IV pole. He stood by the end of the bed for a while. Dean was asleep, slumped sideways in the chair, his mouth hanging slightly open. Cas tugged at the collar of his own shirt. He was too cold but itchy with heat. He squirmed, and threw up on the floor.

Lisa appeared out of nowhere and took a firm hold of Cas’ arm. “Hey. Why don’t you sit down?”

“I hate it,” Cas growled. He pressed his fingers hard against his temples. Lisa pulled them gently away and guided him back to the edge of the bed.

“What’s going on?” Dean asked groggily.

“I don’t want to be here, I hate it,” Cas snapped. He tugged off his hat and clawed against his scalp.

“Cas, honey. It’s alright. You in pain?”

“Yes, I’m in pain,” he growled.

Lisa held her hands up, taking a step back from him. She looked at Dean and shook her head. “I’ll go find the doctor. Can you handle it for a minute?”

“I’m fine,” Cas insisted, loudly. He wretched. Someone held a cardboard bowl up to his chin right as he threw up. He gasped and let his head loll back. “Fuck this.” There was a warm hand on his back, another winding around him. Cas let himself be pulled. Dean stroked the side of his face.

“There you go,” Dean said softly, planting a kiss on his forehead.

“Fucking hell.” Cas grimaced. “I wish you hadn’t come.”

Dean tutted and rolled his eyes. “Well, I’m here now anyway. Might as well get used to it.”

Cas buried his face into the pillow. “I don’t want you to see this.”

“Tough shit,” Dean said firmly. He pulled the blankets from the end of the bed and tucked them around him. Cas cuddled them under his arm. Dean found his hand and clutched it tight. Cas was sick again.

“Did you have oatmeal for breakfast?” Dean asked, curiously.

“Dean!” Cas said, almost smiling. “Gross!”

“Well did you?” he pressed.

Cas rolled his eyes. “That’s disgusting.”

“You’re puking fairly regularly so I thought I might as well find a way for it to entertain the both of us,” Dean explained with a shrug. His eyes sparkled with mischief.

“To entertain _you_ , more like,” Cas huffed. “I think it’s disgusting.”

Lisa returned with Dr Moore behind her. A flicker of recognition crossed Dr Moore’s eyes when she saw Dean. He stood up to shake her hand. “Dean,” she said with some surprise.

“Is there anyone in this building you’ve not slept with?” Cas asked.

Dean flushed bright red. “Uh. Dr Moore was my mother’s doctor.”

“Ah. Sorry,” Cas said, ducking his head.

Dr Moore chuckled. “It’s fine. Lisa said you were having some trouble, Cas?”

Cas squirmed. He’d almost forgotten about the discomfort and the way it was making his toes curl. “It hurts.”

“I can give you something,” she promised. “It might wipe you out, though.”

Cas glanced over at Dean.

“Hey. I’m sure I can manage lunch on my own,” Dean said with a shrug. “Seriously, Cas. Don’t hold out for me.”

“Alright,” Cas agreed gruffly. He watched as he was attached to a third drip.

“That’ll start to take effect pretty quickly,” Dr Moore assured him.

When they were alone again, Dean squeezed onto the edge of Cas’ bed beside him

“You’re breaking the rules,” Cas whispered, smiling.

Dean stroked along Cas’ jaw. “Rules are made to be broken.”

Cas’ eyes felt heavy. “I’m tired,” he realised.

Dean laughed softly. “Yeah?”

Cas nodded minutely.

“Why don’t you go to sleep then?” Dean suggested.

Cas sighed. He relaxed against his pillows, hands still knitted in with Dean’s, between the two of them. Dean planted a gentle kiss onto the tip of Cas’ nose, but he didn’t stir.

Dean stayed on the bed for a little while, until Cas’ hands released his. He pulled the blankets further up Cas again, covering him right up to his chin, careful not to tug at the catheter’s in his chest. He was still beautiful, even passed out and shadowy-eyed, his skin pale and his lips cracked. He was still gorgeous. It wasn’t fair, Dean thought, that as beautiful as Cas could be as sick as he so clearly was.

Dean thought back to his visit to Stanford, all the whirlwind conversations he’d had with his little brother. “Sammy, I’ve met this guy. He’s completely crazy, the lead singer of a band, and he’s gorgeous.”

Sam had laughed, throwing back his head and shaking it so all his stupid long hair flopped about like dog’s ears. “He sounds exactly your type Dean.”

“God. I don’t know. There’s something weird going on with him.”

“Weird like what?”

Dean had shrugged.

He pinched the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and his thumb. He saw sick people every day. It was his job. Sometimes, he saved their lives. Sometimes, they died. There was no real way you could work out which was going to be which.

People talk a lot about medical statistics, but when you’re dealing with an individual patient, they don’t mean anything at all. The law of averages only applies when you have a sample size greater than one. Ninety percent survival rate was as good as fifty-fifty.

Cas’ brow knitted and his eyes opened half a crack. His shoulder’s hunched. Dean grabbed a cardboard bowl from the tray beside Cas’ bed, and held it to his chin. Cas wretched and filled the bowl. This time, his puke was mostly yellow. He’d officially run out of food in his stomach. Cas sobbed dryly. “Dean,” he croaked. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh, shut up,” Dean grumbled. He dabbed a green paper towel at Cas’ lips. Cas took it from him and stubbornly wiped his own mouth. Dean pursed his lips, shaking his head.

“I’m sorry,” Cas said again.

Dean rolled his eyes. He sat on the edge of the bed and smoothed his hand over the sweat damp skin of Cas’ head. Cas peered up, blue eyes only half-open still, but glittering. “It’s alright, baby,” Dean whispered.  

A whimper bubbled up on Cas’ lips. “It’s not.”

“No,” Dean agreed. Tears split down Cas’ cheeks. Dean swiped at them with his thumb. “I’m here, beautiful,” Dean promised him. “Go to sleep.”

Cas sighed. He closed his eyes.

An hour later, Lisa looked in on them. Dean hadn’t moved.

“You need anything?” Lisa asked quietly.

Dean shook his head. “Thanks.”

“He’s lucky to have you.”

Dean sighed. “You’ve got that the wrong way around.”

 

Cas stirred. “Hmm?” he said, trying to pretend he’d heard everything.

Dean chuckled. His hair had dried funny, like he’d been sleeping with his head on Cas’ bed all day. “I said if I stay here any longer, I’m going to go mad,” Dean clarified, and then he yawned again. “I’d like to sleep in my own bed before my next shift, please.”

“When is your next shift?” Cas asked groggily, sitting up. He felt dizzy, slightly light headed. The ward was dark. His tubes were gone. A nurse that wasn’t Lisa was tidying things up in the corner by the bed. Cas blinked. “Did I sleep all day?”

Dean grinned. “Most of it. You were sort of half-awake in bits. You talked a little.”

Cas groaned. “What did I say?”

“You mostly just complained.”

Cas nodded. “My mouth tastes disgusting.”

“You want some water?”

Cas shook his head a little to vigorously and had to steady himself by taking Dean’s hand. He helped Cas to his feet, picked up his rucksack from beside the bedside chair, and slung it over his own shoulder.

“I could manage that,” Cas protested.

“Oh, shut up,” Dean sighed. He pulled Cas close, forcing them to link arms.

Somehow on his way in, Cas had managed to miss the shimmering Christmas decorations that covered the walls of the oncology suite. The whole hospital with filled with foil stars and paper snowflakes. There were fairy lights along the reception in the lobby. Dean left Cas in a seat by the front doors and went to bring the car around. Its black bonnet warped the light shining from the windows above from rectangles into parallelograms and hemispheres.

Dean hopped out, the engine running, heat pouring off the metal bonnet in plumes of steam. He opened the passenger door for Cas to slip inside.

“You look kind of spaced out,” Dean said as they hit the road.

“It’s all the drugs I’m taking.”

Dean laughed. “It’s all sex, drugs and rock and roll with you.”

Cas chuckled tiredly.

Dean turned on the car’s stereo. The volume was low enough that the music wasn’t intrusive, but it caught Cas’ attention nevertheless. He recognised the song, and his lips quirked into a smile. “Nat King Cole?” he asked questioningly.

“Rick Astley,” Dean corrected.

Cas laughed. “Is that supposed to be better?”

“It’s a Christmas classic,” Dean shrugged.

“’When I Fall in Love’ has got nothing to do with Christmas,” Cas protested.

“It snows in the video,” Dean pointed out.

Cas sighed. He was too tired to continue the debate. Dean turned his gaze on him for a moment. “You okay?”

Cas nodded. “Tired.”

Dean sighed too. “We’ll be back soon, and we can both sleep.” Dean turned his gaze back onto the road.

Cas leaned against his seat, staring at Dean in profile as they came to a stop at a junction. The music seemed to get louder, even though neither of them had touched the volume. The streetlights played in his eyes. He was frowning slightly in concentration, but it suited him as much as his cheeky smile. Cas noticed it again, that weird pull in his chest, that twisting feeling like he was going to throw up even though he knew he wasn’t.

Cas had been trying to get his new song right for weeks, and it just wasn’t working. It couldn’t ever fit right in his head. It sounded great, everyone kept telling him. But it didn’t feel it. At this point, racing to get a song recorded every two or three days, the way they felt didn’t matter. He realised, looking at Dean, what was wrong with it. Maybe it had been true when he’d first started putting pen to paper. Maybe at that point he could still reconcile the idea of not having Dean around.

The song reached its last refrain, and Dean’s lips moved silently in time with the lyrics. “And the moment I can feel that you feel that way too, is when I fall in love with you.”

The music faded out. Cas felt hollow. The next song started, cheesy electric guitars completely altering the mood.

Dean caught him staring. “What?”

Cas shook his head. “Nothing,” he lied.

“My place or yours?”

Cas smiled at the assumed invitation. “Mine. Less stairs.”

Dean grinned. “Right.”

Cas turned to the window, and watched the other cars flying past them like ghosts on the wind. A few flakes of snow caught in the air, whirling as they drove. “Dean,” Cas said quietly. “It’s snowing.”

“Oh yeah!” Dean said, his voice brighter than before.

Cas looked back round at him. Dean was grinning. They’d reached Cas’ house. Dean pulled right up onto the empty drive and practically leapt out of the car as fast as he could. Cas couldn’t help but laugh at him. Cas couldn’t take his eyes off Dean. Nothing had changed, but everything was different. Cas was in love with him. Totally, completely. No going back.


	13. What a Wonderful World

It was dusk. It always seemed that his meeting with Dr Moore were held at dusk. It was only half three, though. The days were getting shorter and shorter.

“I’m hoping you called me here to tell me some amazing news,” Cas said, settling into his chair. It had been a day since he’d had any chemo, but he was still feeling wiped out. He was another half stone lighter. It gave him a gaunt, waif-like appearance. His eyes seemed like glowing orbs in his face, their once alluring blue made ridiculous by the greyness of his pallor.

Dr Moore smiled wryly. “I’m sorry, Cas.”

“Ah. So not good news then.” He laced his hands together over his lap and looked down at his intertwined fingers. He wished he’d said something to Dean about this meeting. He had a shift until eleven. Cas glanced over his shoulder at the closed door through to the waiting room. There was nobody sitting out there for him.

He clutched each of his wrists with the opposite hand. He’d never got around to replacing his bracelets. He’d been wearing long sleeved shirts instead.

“Your cancer isn’t responding as well to the treatment as we’d have liked.”

“But it is responding?”

Dr Moore shifted in her seat. “Not enough.”

“Right.” Cas looked away from her, out of the dark window at the orange lights that flooded the carpark.

“The only option now is a bone marrow transplant.”

Cas closed his eyes at ‘only option’. This was a last resort. He didn’t feel worse. He felt shitty, yeah, but that was from the drugs, wasn’t it? His back hadn’t been hurting for weeks. He’d hardly noticed his fatigue. He was managing to sleep with Dean once a week, in the least. He was better than when he started out, wasn’t he? How could he have got worse?

“Castiel?”

“Cas,” Cas corrected gruffly.

Dr Moore sighed. “We can test your close family members to see if they’re a match. It’s safer to have a related donor, and in your case, I’d like to play it as safe as I can.”

“And if they’re not?” Cas asked distantly.

“There’s a national register, but it’s not ideal. We can’t afford to waste any time.”

“How long do I have?”

Dr Moore grimaced. “I don’t want to get drawn into time scales.”

“I’m not going to fucking sue you,” Cas growled. He took a deep breath to try and steady himself. “I just. I want an idea of what timescale I’m working with.”

“Some myeloma patients live for years following successful BMTs,” Dr Moore explained with a shrug. BMT. That made it sound like a sandwich filling.

“And unsuccessful ones?”

Dr Moore met his gaze, unwavering. “Cas. This is your last, best shot.”

He laughed. “Oh, Christ. Are we talking months, here?”

“Cas. Don’t check out on me,” Dr Moore said firmly.

Cas met her gaze. He nodded once, and got to his feet.

“I’ll call your family in for samples,” she told him.

He tensed his jaw, and pulled on his coat. He marched out of the office with his head down. He didn’t respond to the friendly hellos of the people at the oncology desk, or Lisa’s smile from the end of one of the wards, or the little ‘are you okay’s that everyone else threw at him as he thundered past.

He tried to imagine the cancer under his skin, bubbling in his veins. It was a part of him, just as much as his hands or his heart. His body had fucked up majorly and it was going to cost him his life.

The winter air was so cold that every breath felt like a mouthful of cold water. There were cabs pulled into the rank at the front of the hospital, but Cas breezed past them. He trudged right across the carpark, through the snow-topped vehicles. The ones that had been parked all day were cover in a thick layer. The others were dusted lightly, confectioners’ sugar on cake toppings.

Someone beeped their horn at him and he leapt out of the way. He steadied himself against the bonnet of a car. The cool metal clung to his skin. He recognised it, its wide black bonnet. Of course, Dean was in work. It made sense for his car to be parked out there. He peered through the light-glinting windscreen at the empty driver’s seat.

He thought about calling Dean. He knew he’d drop out of his shift if Cas asked him. He didn’t want him to. He didn’t want Dean to have to stop. Cas wanted to lift him high, not drag him down. It was all so stupid and trivial. Calling Dean wasn’t going to stop the shitty things from happening, it would just spread the field of collateral damage even wider than it already was.

Cas walked out of the carpark through the bushes, feeling them tear at his clothes and scratch open the back of his hand. He raised it to his mouth, tonguing the coppery blood. Poisoned. He’d poisoned himself from the inside.

He was breathing fast, stumbling in the chill. His breaths misted in the air in front of him and hung for a moment still before he stepped through them. His back started to hurt, stiffening in the cold. He couldn’t feel his toes or the end of his nose. He was shivering.

As he got closer to town, the roads got busier. More horns blared at him as he walked decrepitly along the edge of the sidewalk-less street. The town was glittering merrily, lit up for Christmas, just four days away. He could smell street-food from the markets on main-street – fresh doughnuts and funnel cake, spiced ciders and wines, meat cooked slowly on rotisseries.

Cas bundled into his coat. His phone buzzed in his pocket. “Cas, what’s going on, I just had a call from Dr Moore, she wants me to go in for a blood sample?” Gabe asked, panicked. Cas hung up and put his phone back. It started ringing again. It was Gabe. Cas turned the phone off.

He sloped into the first bar he came across and straightened up, dusting the snow from his lapels. It was crowded with families laughing and smiling, Christmas music playing over the speakers dotted around the room. “Cassie?”

Balthazar put his hand on Cas’ shoulder, turning him slightly to face him. There was a moment of tension where they appraised one another. Cas braced himself, waiting for Baz to say something about his hair or his weight or his colour, but he didn’t. He just grinned wide, ear to ear, and pulled him in for a hug. Cas clutched him back. It was a relief for someone to be holding him. He hadn’t realised that was what he’d been looking for.

“How are you? Long-time no see.”

Cas shrugged. “I’ve been really busy.”

Balthazar’s smile shrunk back into a smirk. “Ah yes, doing quite well for yourself these days, or so I hear.”

“We’re recording an album,” Cas explained. His voice was unsteady. Balthazar’s gaze searched him, the set of his jaw changing subtly. He knew something was going on. He might have worked it out already.

“It’s good to see you, Cas,” he said with solemn sincerity.

Cas shook his head. “I need a drink.”

They sat at a little table just away from the bar. Balthazar was sipping a beer and Cas was taking long draughts of the long island iced tea he’d just ordered, drinking it as fast as he could manage. After only a few minutes, he slammed the empty glass down onto the wooden table.

“Jeez, you can’t half put it away,” Baz remarked.

Cas smirked. “You’d know.”

Balthazar laughed. “Oh, Cassie, dear. I have missed you.”

“Yeah. Me too.” Cas wasn’t sure if he was talking about missing himself, or Balthazar. “So, how have you been keeping yourself busy during my absence?”

“Oh, girls mostly,” he shrugged. “Had a few ménages a… what’s the French word for twelve?”

“Still got writers block, then?”

Balthazar sighed. “It would seem I’m washed up.”

Cas chuckled. “Nonsense. You’re going to be the next great playwright.”

“Not before you’re a rock star. It’s impolite of you to go ahead and get a record deal when nobody will perform my plays. You’re a rotten cheat.”

Cas raised his eyebrows. “You got half of that right. I’m getting another drink.”

He returned a moment later with a bright green concoction that he’d ordered for the sole reason that it had absinthe in it.

“It’s a dark day when someone orders the Sour Frog, Cas,” Balthazar noted, nodding at Cas’ drink.

He sipped it. It tasted only of absinthe. The chemical harshness of it was all too like the taste that chemo always left in his mouth. He shuddered. “Ugh. It’s foul.”

“Obviously. It’s a drink made specifically for people to punish themselves with.”

“Well. I ought to make it a staple,” Cas mumbled. He took a bigger sip and grimaced.

“Judging from your dishevelled appearance and the fact that you’ve ordered the two highest percentage drinks on the menu one after the other, I’m guessing you’ve got something on your mind.”

Cas arched an eyebrow. He was starting to feel a little fuzzy around the edges. “How intuitive.”

“Now, Cassie. Don’t make fun. I’m concerned for your well-being.”

“Well, fuck off then,” Cas growled.

Balthazar widened his eyes and sat back in his chair. “What?”

Cas laughed. “You and everybody else, breathing down my fucking neck. It’s not going to change anything. It’s not going to make any of it better.”

Balthazar shook his head. “I didn’t mean-”

“I don’t give a shit, Baz. I don’t want to talk about this.”

“Oh, stop being such a twat,” Baz chastised.

“No.” Cas pouted.

Balthazar rolled his glass between his palms, looking off into the distance for a few minutes. “How’s things with your boy?”

Cas smiled. “Great.”

Balthazar ducked his head. Did Cas imagine the glimmer of disappointment in his eyes? “That’s good. You deserve great things.”

Cas tilted his head to the side. He felt a great swell of gratitude and appreciation for Balthazar, who was much better on the inside than he would ever let on. He felt guilty, too, for not reaching out to him. For not even bothering to call. “You’re a good friend.”

Balthazar scoffed. “Those drinks have gone to your head fast.”

Cas shrugged. “Remember that time I came over to your place at like four in the morning, crying my eyes out, drunk as anything?”

Balthazar laughed. “Oh, yeah. That was before you moved out, wasn’t it?”

Cas nodded. “The year after I finished high school.”

“Oh, god. Wasn’t Gabriel living with that awful girl? God. What was her name?”

“Um, Cal? Something like that?” Cas shrugged.

“Yeah.” Balthazar grinned. “You puked everywhere.”

“And I pulled out half my stitches. You had to drive me to the ER,” Cas reminded him. Reflexively he smoothed the scars on his forearms.

“Oh fuck, like I could forget something like that,” Balthazar groaned. “I never got the stains out of that carpet, you know.”

“I know,” Cas giggled. “I went with you to buy the rug.”

Balthazar spluttered and laughed. “Oh, fuck. That part I _had_ forgotten.”

“You sat up with me all night, listening to me talk about my parents and all of that crap. I hadn’t seen you for weeks, I’d been holed up, waiting for my arms to heal. I was so ashamed to wash up on you like that, but you just sat there and listened to me.” Cas’ smile had softened. He sighed and shook his head. “I never really thanked you for it.”

Balthazar frowned. “You never had to.”

“No. And that’s exactly why I should have.”

They both stared into the middle distance for a while.

“You went for those tests a while back,” Balthazar said eventually.

Cas smiled. Of course, he’d remembered.

“I’m guessing the results weren’t good.”

Cas looked at the ground, still smiling. “No. They weren’t.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

Cas stiffened. He closed his eyes. “No.”

“Do you want me to do anything?”

“No.”

“Okay, then fuck that. Let’s get wasted,” Balthazar announced.

Cas looked up at him, incredulous but laughing. “Baz!” He shook his head.

Balthazar was grinning crookedly. He went to the bar and returned with lines of shots. Cas got drunk fast, not used to his lighter frame, and Balthazar seemed to think that was hilarious. The alcohol loosened Cas’ joints and fought back against the pain in his spine. At around eight, he realised he was supposed to take his pills an hour before. He fumbled around for them in his bag under the glaring white lights of the men’s room. He held all five of them in his palm.

The door burst open, and Balthazar stumbled in. “Oh! Drugs! Can I play?”

“I can’t share,” Cas explained. He put them all in his mouth at once and put his head under the tap, trying to gulp water to swallow them back with. Cas’ stomach twisted and he fought against the urge to throw up everything he’d just ingested.

The lights in the bathroom were the same as the ones in the hospital. They beat down on him hard. They leeched the remaining colour from his skin. His reflection looked like a ghost. He pulled the hat from his head, staring at the shiny chalky skin of his scalp. He was going to die, looking like that. The shadows around his eyes were huge. He already looked like a corpse.

“Cas?”

“I need some air,” he admitted croakily. Balthazar nodded. He held the door open whilst Cas stormed through. On the street, he doubled over, taking bit panic breaths. Balthazar stood a few feet away.

“Too much to drink?”

Cas shook his head. He’d felt swimming before but now he was as sober as if he’d not had a drop to drink. “I just need to get out.”

Balthazar nodded. He sat down on the steps of a closed shop. The Christmas markets were still going. Cas could hear the hiss of deep fat fryers and the tinkle of live music. The air was cold and beautiful. The trees glittered with fairy lights, some of them soft white, others multi-coloured. Their wires were only visible in parts that reflected the streetlamps, linking them to the rooftops of the shops that lined the streets.

Way above them, the stars shimmered in the clear night sky. A crescent moon kissed a pale silver glow to the snowy sidewalks and the frost creeping its way over the hoods of the few cars parked at the edges of the street. Cas’ shaking hands glowed too, just as white in the moonlight.

“Feeling any better?” Balthazar asked.

Cas laughed. “No. Not really.”

Baz nodded, as though he understood. He didn’t. He got to his feet and stood next to Cas again. Cas didn’t look at him. He was still staring up at the stars.

Cas sighed. “It’s such a huge, random thing, the universe.”

“Yeah.”

“I want it to mean something.”

“What?”

Cas turned, looked Balthazar right in the eye. “All of it. You, me. Neutron star collisions.”

Balthazar nodded and looked up at the sky. “It does mean something.”

“How?”

Balthazar shrugged. “I don’t fucking know, do I? But it means _something_. You mean a lot to me. We notice shit that happens in the sky, and write it down. That means something.”

“You think?”

“Yeah.”

Cas wasn’t convinced. He put his hat back on. It was warm from being scrunched up in his hand. “Thanks for tonight, Balthazar.”

Balthazar shrugged again. “No problem.”

“You make me feel normal.”

Balthazar snorted. “What? Because I’m such a delusional fuck up?”

Cas rolled his eyes. “No. You know what, never mind.”

Balthazar grinned triumphantly. “Anytime, Cassie.”

Cas shook his head. “I know.”


	14. Secrets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe this story has 102 Kudos and it's not even finished! Thank you so much, everyone! And thanks to all the people commenting, too! It really makes a difference to me to know that people are enjoying my work.

Cas was being weird again and Dean was trying not to overthink it. It was hard, when he knew for a fact that Cas had hidden Very Important things from him before. He could only reassure himself that Cas had told him about it in the end, so whatever was making him all wistful and distant again now would come out in the end too.

The only thing was that Cas _hadn’t_ told him, really. Dean had worked it out. So, he’d sat with Cas through chemo sessions, dabbed his mouth with paper towels when he puked and cradled him through moments of feverishness not bad enough to have him committed as an in-patient. He still didn’t know exactly what was wrong with Cas.

He had toyed with the idea of asking Dr Moore about it. She probably wouldn’t tell him even if he asked outright; she’d known him for years, but, unlike Cas had implied, the relationship was entirely platonic. Not that he blamed her in the slightest, but Dean wasn’t sure he could ever look at her without thinking about his mom’s death. It was stupid; she was so far gone before they even met Dr Moore. Still. It wasn’t like he could help it.

Maybe he could have tricked it out of her, gone to ask some vague questions about Cas’ condition and seen if maybe she’d let slip what cancer, exactly, he had. That seemed below the belt. However, he dressed it up to justify it to himself, he would be going behind Cas’ back to get information he clearly wasn’t supposed to have.

In very desperate moments, he considered pulling Cas’ records. Just to have a quick look. That was all. He just wanted to know what it was called; it was harmless. It would help him to understand what Cas was going through a bit better, and then he’d be able to be more helpful, right? So, what was the harm?

“S’up, lover boy?” Charlie asked, sitting opposite him at the table. They were in the hospital café. There were patchy strings of tinsel along the railings of the stairs that looked like they might have mange. The trees looming in the corners were dark and ominous during the day, when the lights that flickered on their branches were drowned by the cloud-filtered sunshine as it glared off the snowy courtyard outside.

“Just thinking about Cas again,” Dean sighed. He stuffed a torn-off piece of sandwich into his mouth.

“I thought love was supposed to make you all smiley and shit?” she asked, opening her bottle of coke.

“Bullshit. Have you read Shakespeare?” Dean asked.

Charlie snorted. “As if you’ve read any Shakespeare.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She glowered at him for a moment, but then seemed to decide that it wasn’t the best time to pick a fight. “What’s up with lover boy that’s got you all misty eyed this time?”

“I’m not misty eyed,” Dean grumbled. He wiped his eyes with his wrists anyway. “He’s being weird again.”

“What, like he’s hiding something?”

Dean shrugged.

Charlie settled into her chair with a sigh. “Look, Dean. I know you don’t want me to say this, but maybe he’s right to be shutting you out. You’ve only been dated a couple of months. It’s a lot to handle.”

“I can handle it,” Dean muttered.

Charlie tensed her jaw and tossed her hair. “You can’t save everyone.”

“Christ, Charlie. Are we going to do this again?”

“I’m just saying! You put a lot of pressure on yourself to be the big hero! That’s why they failed you the first time you tried for EMT.”

“Charlie,” Dean warned. He angrily shoved more bread into his face. “Imfin,” he said, mouth full.

Charlie rolled her eyes. “Just make sure you’re looking after yourself, alright?”

He nodded.

“You still coming for Christmas Eve drinks tonight, Dean-o?”

“Of course.” It was the first time since Dean had started working at the hospital that their Christmas Eve drinks would be actually held on Christmas Eve. Usually their schedules were too manic. One or other of them had always had a shift on Christmas Eve that meant it was impossible or unfair for everyone else to go out without them.

“What about Cas?”

Dean shrugged. “Depends on how he’s feeling, I guess.”

Charlie nodded understandingly. Dean had been as upfront about Cas’ illness with her as he could have been. She was desperate for details, but he had none to give. She didn’t believe him.

“So what weird stuff’s he been doing this time?”

Dean’s mouthful suddenly felt very dry. He tried to swallow and it stuck in his throat. He snatched Charlie’s drink and swigged some to clear the blockage.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he shrugged. “Just seems like he’s hiding something.”

Charlie grimaced. “You don’t think it’s getting worse?”

Dean sighed. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. He seems… I don’t know.”

“Alright, I get it; you don’t know. Stop there before you bust a nut trying to articulate.”

Dean huffed and folded his arms. He checked his watch and sighed.

“You got somewhere to be?” she asked.

“I’m meeting Cas for coffee in town.”

“Can’t be that bad if he’s still up and about then,” Charlie concluded.

Dean nodded in agreement. “Yeah. Bye, Charlie.”

She saluted him as he walked away.

He stuffed his hands into his pockets and started to shuffle towards the exit.

“Dean?” It was Cas’ brother, Gabe. Dean smiled but Gabe didn’t return it. He looked drawn and almost as pasty as his brother.

“Hey, Gabe. What are you doing here? Is Cas…?” Dean looked anxiously over his shoulder like they might have been wheeling Cas away on a gurney right there.

“Oh. He’s not here,” Gabe answered distantly. His eyes were red. That wasn’t unusual, but Gabe’s lucidity definitely was. He was holding a piece of paper.

“What’s that?” Dean asked. He had to stop himself from snatching it and scouring the tiny writing for some clue about Cas.

“My results,” Gabe croaked. He swallowed thickly. “I’m not a match.”

“A… match?”

“For Cas,” Gabe went on.

“I thought you had the same blood type?”

Gabe gave Dean an odd look. “We do. But it’s not a good enough match for bone marrow.”

Dean’s guts fell to somewhere in the region of his ankles. He gulped. “What?”

Gabe grimaced. “Aww, fuck. He hasn’t told you, has he?”

“No.” Dean’s voice was frosty.

“Christ, this like when I outed him to that guy, fucking hell. This is a thousand times worse than that.” Gabe covered his face with his hands and the sheet of his failed results. Dean blinked at them.

“It’s fine. He… he would have told me in the end,” Dean nodded certainly. Bone marrow. That narrowed it down. It was probably a leukaemia or a lymphoma if they were trying to fix it with a BMT. Fuck, he wished he’d read more about it. The combination of chemo drugs they’d been using had him reading down a whole different list of possibilities, mostly bone cancers.

Gabe was shaking. “You want a ride?” Dean offered.

Gabe considered for a moment, then nodded.

In the car, Dean drew a deep breath. “Who else have they screened?”

“Our parents.”

Dean waited for Gabe to tell him whether they were matches. Gabe didn’t say anything else. Dean took that as meaning that they weren’t. “Does Cas know?”

“I don’t know,” Gabe answered distantly. “Oh, Christ. You’re like a nurse or something, right?”

Dean braced himself. “Yeah.”

“They don’t normally do this kind of thing unless they’re desperate, do they?”

Dean’s grip on the steering wheel tightened. He took a deep breath. “There’s a register.”

“But it’s more dangerous.”

Dean ground his teeth together. “Yeah.”

“Dean. Stop the car,” Gabe said suddenly. Dean stamped on the brakes and pulled over. He was used to Cas needing to stop like that on the way home from the hospital, to lean out of the passenger door and throw up in the gutter. Dean always made sure he took a cardboard bowl when they left, but Cas was too worried about missing and getting puke on Dean’s car.

Gabe was gripping the edges of his seat. “Dean. I’m going to tell you something. Cas cannot know.”

Dean frowned. He shut off the engine. “Tell me.”

 

 

Cas smiled at the waitress. It was the same one who’d served them the first time Dean had brought him there, Jess. She smiled in recognition. “Hey. Aren’t you Dean Winchester’s friend?” she asked.

He smiled sadly at the misnomer. “Yes. And you’re Jess, right?”

She pointed at her name badge. It had ‘Jess’ written on it next to a tiny drawing of a cake. “That’s me.”

“Dean mentioned something about you and his brother.”

Jess blushed. “Really? He’s such an ass. Me and Sam are just friends, that’s all,” she assured him.

Cas raised an eyebrow. “Right.”

Jess cleared her throat and smoothed her hair. “Hey…” she said, gesturing with her pen and frowning. “You’re in that band.”

“Seraphims?” Cas asked with surprise.

Jess’ face lit up. “Yeah! I heard your song on the radio! Dogfish?”

Cas smiled wider and nodded. “Right! That’s me.”

“Aww, man! You guys are really good. I saw you playing at the club in town a few months back.” She was blushing again.

“You don’t look twenty-one,” he noted.

Her blush deepened. “Yeah, well.” She shrugged.

Cas chuckled. “Ah. I think it’s an important part of establishing emotional maturity, sneaking into clubs when you’re underage.”

Jess smiled and bit her lip. “I don’t think they’d have let me in if Dean hadn’t vouched for me.”

“You went with Dean?” Cas asked, smiling crookedly

“Oh, I just went with him. I didn’t, like, _go_ with him,” she explained with a flutter of her hands. “I don’t think Dean’s slept with girls since he was in high school.”

Cas laughed properly at that. “No?”

She shrugged. “Yeah. He was just helping me out. He was there with his friends from work, you know?”

Cas nodded.

“When I saw them, I totally freaked. I thought my mom was going to be there!” she laughed somewhat hysterically.

“Dean knows your mom?”

“Yeah. She works at the hospital. She actually helped him out getting his job. She, uh. She was his mom’s doctor. Before she died.”

Cas frowned. “Wait. Your surname isn’t Moore?”

Jess smiled. “Yeah, it is, actually.”

The café door opened and Dean entered, smiling. His cheeks were rouged with the cold. He was frowning in a look of deep contemplation, but he tried to hide it when he saw Cas sitting at the table. Cas frowned back at him, questioning. Jess caught Dean’s eye and he smiled, all traces of the previous expression obscured. Cas watched their exchange of pleasantries. He felt cold all over.

Dean slipped into the booth opposite him and spent an inordinate amount of time pulling off his gloves.

“What’s with you?”

Dean looked up, at once sheepish and startled. “Nothing.”

Cas rolled his eyes. “You’re a terrible liar.”

Dean averted his gaze. “Maybe if you weren’t such a good one.”

A further chill shivered down Cas’ spine. Dean picked up the menu and stared at it, even though he always ordered the same thing when they went there. Cas sighed. “I can’t be that good.”

Dean’s gaze flickered up. “Oh?”

“You always seem to know when something’s bugging me.”

Dean’s shoulders slumped a little. He squeezed his eyes shut. “Hmm.”

Cas reached across the table to brush their knuckles together. “You seem stressed.”

“I ran into Gabe at the hospital.”

Cas stiffened again. “You did?”

“Yeah.” Dean rubbed the back of his neck. Cas gulped. Dean knew why Gabe was at the hospital, and probably what the results of his screening was.

“My phone’s turned off.”

Dean blinked. “Why?”

“I don’t want to know,” Cas said simply.

Dean frowned. “But-”

“I don’t want to know.”

Dean opened his mouth like he was going to say something else but then seemed to think better of it. Jess returned, took their orders. Cas clutched Dean’s hand across the table.

“Do you know what I am today?” Cas asked, when Jess had walked away.

Dean shook his head.

“I’m the front man of a band, and I’m your boyfriend. Nothing else.”

Dean looked conflicted.

Cas squeezed his hand. “The first thing I do on December twenty sixth will be call Dr Moore and ask for the results. I promise.”

“Can you risk that?”

“Two days isn’t going to kill me, Dean,” Cas said firmly. “If I don’t do this now, I might never have the chance.”

Dean stewed for a moment, then nodded.

Cas sighed and leaned back in his chair, relief coursing through him cool and refreshing. “Okay, good. First thing on the agenda is sleeping with you.”

Dean raised an eyebrow and glanced at his watch. “We can squeeze that in, if you hurry up with your drink.

Cas grinned. “Excellent. Afterwards, I’d suggest getting blind drunk so that we’ll be nursing traditional Christmas morning hangovers.”

Dean laughed. “Okay. And then what are your plans?”

Cas shrugged. “Whatever your plans are, mine are too.”


	15. Falling/Catching

Life doesn’t pay any attention to how bad people’s days are, or how difficult it is for them to get out of bed. Life goes on, regardless of aches, pains, or anxieties. The world moves and it takes everyone with it, whether they like or resent it.

It was New Years’ day.

“Cas, wake up,” Dean whispered. His lips brushed over Cas’ ear.

“Mm,” Cas rolled into his pillows, squeezing his eyes shut. He was displaced for a moment, unsure if he was at the hospital or back at home in his bed. Dean’s hot hand skirted over Cas’ bare hip. It seemed unlikely they were at the hospital.

They’d not been apart since Cas had wedged himself into Dean’s Christmas plans. Dean didn’t do Christmas, which Cas thought was fine because he’d never done Christmas either. Dean’s friend Charlie from work came over, they ate take out and skyped with Dean’s brother, who had decided to stay at college for the holidays.

After that, Charlie slept on the couch and Cas had crawled into Dean’s bed with him. They’d stayed there for most of the intervening period.

On the day after Boxing Day, Cas had gone into the bathroom and called Dr Moore, but he knew already that none of his family was going to be a match, or he’d have heard from them already. He had so many missed calls from his mother. He listened to a couple of her angry voicemails, then deleted the rest. Of course, they weren’t a match. Of course.

“Come on, baby,” Dean encouraged.

“I’m tired,” Cas complained, squeezing his eyes shut more tightly.

“Baby, you’ve got to get up, you’re bleeding.”

The words came to Cas as though over a great distance. He pressed his face further into the pillows. “Too tired.”

Dean’s hand on Cas’ hip tugged him over gently onto his back. Cas put up very little resistance. He felt a cold chill down the front of his body. He sat up groggily. There was blood all over his pillow and smeared into Dean’s sheets. He felt something not unlike what he imagined it felt like to have your brain pulled out of your nose, and a thick glob of blood fell onto his arm.

Dean bundled up a blanket and pressed it to Cas’ face. He could feel his heartbeat like it was behind his eyes. With every sorry thud, more blood came out of him. The edges of his vision prickled black. He shuddered.

“Ambulance,” Cas managed to say.

“It’s pumping out of you, baby. I’m driving you.” Dean put his dressing gown around Cas’ shoulders.

“No,” Cas croaked. He grabbed Dean’s sleeve. Dean peered down at him. Cas blinked. “The car.”

There were tears in Dean’s eyes. “I don’t give a shit about the car, I’m driving you.”

Cas smiled behind the blanket. Dean tied the belt of his dressing down around him.

“Can you make the stairs?” Dean asked, helping Cas uncertainly to his feet. Cas wavered unsteadily. “It’s okay. I got you,” Dean promised. He looped an arm around him, taking most of his weight, and practically dragged him out of the flat. Dean was wearing untied sneakers, his pyjama pants, and a grey t-shirt streaked with blood. Cas was naked apart from the dressing gown, the blanket, and his underwear.

At the top of the stairs, Cas stopped and gripped the railing tight. He looked at Dean with panicked eyes. “I got you,” Dean promised again. Cas nodded. He folded against Dean, pressing his face and the blanket into his shoulder so he could hold around Dean’s neck with both hands.

Outside, there was a thick carpet of snow, and more of it was on the air. The engine would be frozen. He slid Cas into the back seat and he keeled over onto his side. Dean repositioned him upright and strapped him in. “You got to sit up, baby; keep your head above your heart.”

The words trilled through Cas. His eyelids were heavy. He felt Dean’s hand on his cheek. “Stay with me, beautiful. Hold onto that blanket.” Cas blinked. The snow and the streetlights were drifting by. Dean was talking still. His words were drifting too. Off into the night time.

“I’m supposed to have an interview…” he said.

“Don’t try to talk, baby,” Dean told him.

Cas blinked. He didn’t know his body held that much blood. It seemed silly. He clearly didn’t need all of it. The towel was heavy. His wrists ached from holding it up.

At the traffic lights Dean reached around and lifted Cas’ hands back up to his face.

At the hospital, Dean pulled the door open wide and leaned in. He carried Cas against his chest, keeping his head against his shoulder as best as he could manage. It must have been a sight for he co-workers, striding in like he did with Cas bleeding and cradled practically naked in his arms. It’d certainly be one to tell the kids.

They propped him on a gurney, and rushed him through to a curtained off section. Dean was used to being on the other side of the questions being thrown at him. Does he have any existing conditions? Any signs of thrombocytopenia before this evening? Any blood thinning medications? It shocked him to realise he didn’t know the answers to most of the questions.

The blood made Cas’ eyes look even more ethereal than usual. He didn’t seem to be able to see anyone else in the room. He stared up at Dean with a half-awake gaze, a strange bite of determination in the way he set his jaw, even as they were packing gauze into his nose. Dean could feel his hands shaking. He’d always thought he was made of stronger stuff than to let this get to him.

“Shit. This your boy, Dean?” one of the trauma doctors asked.

“Yeah. That’s him.” Dean’s voice was miles away from his feelings. Out loud he still sounded competent and certain. Inside he was falling apart.

Finally, Cas was cauterised and cleaned and stuffed with fresh gauze just in case, then left to sleep whilst they drained quart after quart of blood into Cas’ chest. Dean sat with him and held on fast to his cold, limp hand. Intermittently, Cas woke up again, blinking. Dean would hush him until he drifted back to sleep. There were streaks of blood all over his clothing.

Last week he helped lift a broken wall off some kid’s legs. Before that he’d wrenched a near-dead couple out of a crashed car. He’d put pressure on thigh wounds, taped scalp abrasions and listened to toddlers scream in pain from broken bones. He still felt like a kid. A sitting duck, staring on helplessly. It was like what happened with his mom. He was useless. The world was caving in, and he had this awful churning in the pit of his stomach because he knew he was supposed to be doing _something._

Finally, Louise Moore arrived, her hair messed and expression. She squeezed Dean’s shoulder and assumed control over the room. Cas was moved upstairs to a private room. His parents were paying apparently. Louise was supposed to call them. Dean cut her off, said he’d call Gabe and get him to do it.

“Dean,” Gabe asked. He was drunk. “You coming to the party after all?”

“Cas is sick,” Dean said. The music throbbed behind Gabe and filled the silence.

“What?”

“He’s bleeding. I’m at the hospital.”

“Fuck. They called mom and dad?”

“Not yet. I’m calling you first.”

“Shit. Okay. Right. I’m coming. I’ll. I’ll call Balthazar, he’ll give me a ride.”

“Who?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“What about your mom and dad?”

“I’ll sort it out,” Gabe slurred insistently. “I’ll be there.” The line went dead. Dean stared at the screen of his phone. He dialled Sam’s number and hung up before the call went through.

In his head, Dean went over the conversation he and Gabe had shared in the car more than a week before. “I really need an ally in this,” Gabe said grimly.

“Come on, Gabe. Stop fucking around.”

“God, I. I don’t know where to start.” Gabe covered his face with his hands.

“Start by telling me why I should be interested,” Dean suggested gruffly. He took the keys out of the ignition and crossed his arms.

Gabe took a deep breath. “It might save Cas’ life,” Gabe said distantly.

“Okay. Good answer.” Dean waited for Gabe to continue. He didn’t. “Come on, Gabe. Spit it out.”

“It’s complicated, alright?” Gabe hissed, glaring over at him.

“How complicated can it be if it can save him?” Dean countered, narrowing his eyes.

Gabe chewed his lip. “Has Cas… has he talked about…?” Gabe curled his hands around alternate wrists. Dean gulped and shook his head. “Oh, fucking hell,” Gabe muttered. “Well, you know he. You must _know_ , right?”

Dean nodded. “I try not to think about it.”

“Huh. You and me both.”

“I don’t see the relevance of this.”

Gabe squeezed his eyes shut. “Our mom… she can’t. She can’t have kids.”

Dean frowned. “What?”

“Yeah, it… it’s. Messy.”

Dean looked straight ahead. It was getting dark. “Right.”

“Me and Cas are IVF babies. Some of the first, actually.” Gabe sighed. “Donor eggs, you know.”

Dean frowned. “So the mom…?”

Gabe shook his head. “Let me finish.”

“Right.”

“They wanted a girl and a boy, right?” Gabe explained weakly. “So after me they tried for a girl.”

“But they got Cas?”

Gabe shook his head. “Not just Cas.”

“Twins?”

“Dad… he. He wasn’t happy. He’s not a very agreeable man.”

Dean nodded.

Gabe frowned. “Did Cas…?”

“Oh, no. No. My dad was a dick, too,” Dean explained with a wry smile.

Gabe tried to return it but only managed to grimace. “They gave him away.”

Dean didn’t know what Gabe meant at first. He put his hands on the steering wheel, tugged against the small amount of give the tyres had against the cold road. The car was starting to cool down without the engine to keep it toasty.

“Fuck,” Dean said, after maybe five minutes of silence had elapsed.

“We didn’t know. For years and years neither of us had any idea,” Gabe sighed. “No wonder my mom was so fraught all the time. The guilt was killing her.”

“Not your dad though,” Dean noted bitterly.

“No,” Gabe agreed.

“So, the twin. He might be a match?” Dean asked hopefully.

Gabe shifted uncomfortably. “He’s definitely a match. A perfect one.”

“They were _identical_ twins?” Dean asked, aghast. Dean tried to imagine it, knowing for a whole pregnancy that you were going to keep one of your kids and not the other. How could you even begin to make that kind of a decision? When they were _identical children_ how could you ever pick one over the other? Did they flip a coin, wear a blindfold and see which one they were pointing at? Like pin the tail on the donkey, but instead of a paper appendage it was love and a place in the family that was being randomly assigned.

“Cas was born first.”

“Man. That’s fucking _cold_ ,” Dean growled. His knuckles were white as his grip on the steering wheel tightened. Fury was rising like bile in the bale of his throat. He swallowed it back and tried to think of the positives. Cas might be okay. There was a chance that he could have the bone marrow he needed to get better. That was a good thing. He needed to focus on that. “So, how do we find this kid?”

“He lives in Boston.”

“That’s two hours away.” Dean glanced at the clock on the dashboard. “We can go now and be back before midnight.”

Gabe chewed his lip.

“What?” Dean demanded.

“It’s complicated.”

“Fuck, Gabe. Either we find this kid or Cas dies. Doesn’t sound that complicated to me.”

Gabe’s expression fell. “If I believed that barging up there and dragging Jimmy back here would make one spit of a difference, don’t you think I’d have done it already?”

“Well, why haven’t you?”

“Because!” Gabe yelled. “Last time Jimmy was here my parents tried to pay him off, and when he wouldn’t take their money my dad told him to go to hell! He was fifteen, living in some shitty group home after he got took out of the toxic household my father tossed him into. Some business partner or something, I can’t remember. He was probably just in it for the cash, didn’t think about what his life was going to be like, raising a son. The guilt _consumed_ Cas. He didn’t talk for eighteen months. He barely ate. He was institutionalised for a couple of weeks before my dad dragged him home and told him to man up.”

Gabe was breathing heavily. Dean thought he might throw up.

“Last I heard, Jimmy was washed up in Boston, trying to piece together some kind of idea of a life. I know Cas went looking for him. I don’t know what happened when he got there. But when he came home, he was different. Hollow.” Gabe tugged his hands through his hair. “He’d had friends before, but now it was a miracle if he said a word to anyone all day. It was like going back to square one. And then suddenly, he met Michael, and roped me into his band. Seemed like everything was great for a while after that, you know.” Gabe pinched the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb. “I guess Cas just got better at pretending.”

“Man,” Dean mumbled. “You Milton boys sure are good at keeping secrets.”

 

Cas stirred in his bed again. Dean clutched his hands. “I’m here, baby,” he soothed.

“I’m drowning,” Cas whispered.

“You’re not. I got you,” Dean promised.

There was a knock on the door and Gabe stepped inside, followed by a slender blonde man that Dean had never met before. “How is he?” Gabe asked grimly.

“Restless.”

Gabe sighed. “Yeah.”

The third man was staring at Cas, his expression twisted.

“He’s alright, Baz,” Gabe said softly.

“He’s just worn out,” Dean offered. He let go of one of Cas’ hands.

Baz looked at Dean as if seeking approval. Dean nodded. Baz took Cas’ newly freed hand. Cas’ eyes fluttered open. “Balthazar?” he asked breathlessly.

“Alright, Cassie, you cheeky minx.” Balthazar’s voice shook.

“I thought… you were dead.” Cas smiled and let his eyes close again. he smoothed his thumb over the back of Balthazar’s cold hand.

“Oh, Cas,” Baz whimpered.

“I’m alright,” Cas managed quietly.

“What happened?” Gabe asked, folding his arms.

“I don’t know. I woke up and he was bleeding…” Dean shook his head.

“Very low… blood counts,” Cas explained quietly. “I’m dizzy.”

Dean stood up, filling all of Cas’ narrow view of the world. Everything was turning slightly, like all of a sudden he could feel the Earth’s rotation. It was all turning around Dean, with the light caught in his hair, his eyes glistening. “You’re beautiful,” he told him.

Dean smiled, his eyes crinkling.

“Aww, don’t cry.” Cas reached up, his arm so heavy the bones must have been replaced with lead. He caught Dean’s tears on his cheek. “Shush.”


	16. What Now?

**SPRING**

 

The more Cas observed, the more he understood that Cole Gagarin was the whole of _Party Shock_.

There were three other band members – drummer, bass player, rhythm guitarist – but Cole answered for them, smooth and quick. They didn’t seem to want to be in the run down warehouse the photographer had directed them to. Cas was sure he’d been to illegal parties there with Gabe and Baz in his bleary, wayward years. They weren’t so far behind him, but they felt it. His body ached like he was a hundred years old. He walked with his arm looped through Dean’s to disguise the fact that, really, he shouldn’t be out of bed. He picked at the new leather bands he had covering the scars on his arms. His bones felt like they were trembling.

Cole looked exactly the way he did in photographs of himself; gelled and styled and pristine. He had the air of someone who was precisely aware of just how attractive they were. He was very, _very_ attractive. So attractive that it almost hurt to look at him. It was like trying to stare at the sun.

Cas touched the photograph of himself that was inside the cover of their recently published album. He had jaw length hair and eye liner and no tubes in his very nearly bare chest, the vest he was wearing a poor excuse for clothing, and was probably more accurately described as strips of torn up cloth barely held together by untidy seams. His shoulders curved in around him, showing the top edge of his wings, their colours blanched in black and white.

“I think I saw that gig,” Dean told Cas quietly.

“Yeah?”

“I recognise the shirt.”

Cas chuckled. “I had a lot of them like that.”

“Damn, did you dress that way all the time?”

Cas tilted his head into the side of Dean’s neck. “Mostly.”

Dean sighed longingly. “You must have been freezing.”

Cas didn’t remember being cold, actually. He remembered feeling like a god. He would stand there and people hung on his words. They swayed and shouted them back to him in reverence. It all felt very far away. It had ever since the first time Dr Moore had uttered the word ‘myeloma’. For months now he’d been trapped inside a glass bubble, a million miles away from everything he used to be.

Crowley hovered around, peering disapprovingly over at Cole and the people behind him, at the harried photographer as she went about and arranged things in a seemingly meaningless manner; adjusting a pile of rusted chains; sliding battered crates several inches to the left; adjusting the drape of a stained cotton sheet over a broken door.

“Where’s Michael and Gabe?” Dean asked.

“Oh. Apparently, they didn’t have to be here.”

“Gagarin’s brought his cronies, though.”

Cas smirked. “I know. I don’t know what’s going to happen now.”

Eventually, the photographer seemed to sense the growing irritation of the other humans in the room and came over and had her stylist look over Cole and Cas. The stylist looked at Cas’ shirt and gulped. It was too small, lilac with orange hems, and it had a crab in the centre of the chest. Underneath the crab, it said ‘cancer’ in bright orange letters. Dean grinned at the stylist’s critical expression. She didn’t push the issue and scuttled away.

There are huge floodlights here and there, and they have heated the space so effectively that Cas could take his jacket off. Dean, Crowley and the stylists had shimmering beads of sweat on their skin, but Cas was at a very agreeable temperature. Cole Gagarin didn’t seem to have sweat pores. His skin was an enviable matt perfection.

The photographer led Cas over to the battered crates and sat him down. She fetched Cole and sat him beside him. Cas gulped.

“You’re Castiel, right?” Cole said, smiling his dazzling toothy smile. He was there. Real. In the flesh.

“Yes.” Cas agreed.

Cole laughed. “It’s nice to see you in person.” His eyes darted around Cas’ face, taking in his chalky complexion, his hollow cheeks, the shadows around his smoky eyes, the thinness of his drawn-on eyebrows, and, undoubtedly, his lack of any hair whatsoever. “Nice shirt.”

Cas laughed nervously. “Thanks.”

“Crowley, he uh. He said you were sick?”

Cas gulped. He looked over to the edge of the warehouse. Dean was ghosting around near the wall. He smiled at Cas encouragingly. Cas turned back to Cole. “Hence the shirt.”

Cole didn’t seem to know how to respond for a few moments. He blinked his large brown eyes and ran a hand over his quiff, dislodging the front few strands of hair in a way that was so startlingly similar to the way he looked in his last music video that Cas’ heart skipped.

“Man, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Doesn’t change anything,” Cas said.

Again, Cole was flummoxed for a second. Then he nodded. “Cool. So, uh. You done these shoots before?”

Cas half-smiled. “Never.”

Cole grinned. “You ever wanted to know what it feels like to be a table lamp?”

“You know, actually…?”

Cole laughed. “You’re in for a treat.”

The photographer slammed a huge tripod with a gigantic camera on it three foot from their faces. “Just act like the camera isn’t here,” she suggested.

Cole was very well practiced. He responded with perfection to every direction. Cas was stiff with awkwardness and real discomfort. The photographer adjusted his hands and his chin, sat them closer, further apart. Next they stood by the wall, near the coil of chains. The photographer put Cas in front of the wall, had Cole lean over him. They held eye contact and Cas blushed. Cole grinned crookedly and winked. Cas glanced over at Dean, who seemed incredibly amused. He took a liberty, arching his back. Cole’s expression changed to one of near-surprise.

“Gorgeous,” the photographer said. “You’ve got really good energy.”

Next, she decided to have some shots of Cole alone. Cas retreated to the plastic chairs near to Dean and let exhaustion hunch his shoulders and rust his joints. Dean kissed the back of his neck and Cas sighed. “I think these photos are going to make onto the bedroom walls of a lot of teenage girls.”

“And boys,” Cas suggested.

Dean laughed. “And boys.”

Someone turned on a large heater in the corner and Cas watched Cole strip off his shirt with quiet amazement. His chest was beautiful, muscles undulating.

“Hey,” Dean whispered. “I’m right here.”

Cas smiled. “So am I,” Cas pointed out.

“Touché.”

The photographer called Cas’ name and he got to his feet as quickly as he could. “If you’d take off your shirt and go sit over by the sheet?”

Cas froze. “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

Cas shook his head. “I can’t,” he repeated, incapable of articulating the issue. He couldn’t be shirtless in a magazine, looking like _that._ There were still tubes in him. He was the thinnest he’d been in his adult life. He could count his ribs through his shirt. He kept having to buy smaller jeans. Even his shoes felt too loose. He felt like a baby bird, bony and exposed.

“What’s the problem?” Crowley asked sourly.

“He says he doesn’t want to take off his shirt.”

“That’s very unprofessional,” Crowley remarked, with a condescending pout in Cas’ direction.

“No,” Cas said firmly.

“What’s up?” Cole asked, swanning over, muscles beautiful and defined. Cas looked away.

“There’s wires,” Cas explained grimly.

“Wires?” Cole echoed.

“In my chest!” Cas spat. “There’s fucking tubes in my chest, alright?”

“Calm down,” Crowley interjected.

“Fuck you,” Cas hissed. “It’s bad enough as it is, with you knowing and everyone I love knowing and now my fucking idol knows. I don’t want every person in the crowd at every gig I go to looking at me with that pity you all get in your eyes when you’re talking to me. I don’t want to be this fucking illness. I don’t want everyone to see it, written all over me.”

He stopped and staggered, panting. He clutched one of the battered crates for support and slumped down onto the concrete floor. His heart was thumping wildly. He leaned his head back, drinking in as much air as his aching lungs would allow him.

“Hey, baby,” Dean said. Cas opened his eyes. Dean was crouching in front of him. “Don’t let this get to you. You’re gorgeous.”

Cas growled. “I’m not.”

“Yes, you are. Everyone around you can see it. Especially me.”

Cas looked at the concrete between his bony knees. “I’m hideous.”

“Never,” Dean whispered reverently.

“Was I beautiful when I was bleeding? When they had to shove a tube down my throat just to make me breathe?”

Dean frowned. “What are you saying?”

“I don’t want to be this.”

Dean dropped his hands. “Tough shit.”

Cas’ eyes burned. “You know what? Fuck you.”

“That’s not fair.”

“No? Tough shit,” Cas growled.

“We can just pack up now. I’ve got enough shots,” the photographer said meekly.

Dean lifted his head, an explanation obviously bubbling on his lips.

“No, you don’t have to say anything,” Cas insisted. He got to his feet, head spinning for a moment so the world seemed to rotate slightly around his feet. He walked back over to the photographer and yanked his shirt over his head. The tubes caught in the fabric, tugged at his skin just a little, then dropped free. They swayed slightly against his milky body. The photographer looked a little green around the gills.

“I’m a freak. You see?” he spat. Cas’ body hummed with heavy ache. “Come on, Dean,” Cas announced. “We’re leaving.”

He turned and stormed out of the building. He knew he was burning up all the energy he had left, wasting it on anger when it could have gone to something better. He had committed now, though, and there was no way in hell he was going to back out.

“What the hell?” Dean yelled, jogging out into the carpark after him.

Cas stopped to look back at him, and the cold hit him like a bucket of ice over his head. Dean ran towards him, yanking off his jacket so he could wrap it around Cas’ shoulders. “What are you doing?” Dean asked desperately.

“I’m sick of this,” Cas replied bitterly. “I hate the way they all look at me.”

“You could have just walked out of there! The lady said they had what they needed.”

“They don’t get it!”

“Nobody gets it. They aren’t going to,” Dean said thinly. Cas shivered. Dean pulled him close.

“I’m so _angry_ ,” Cas whispered.

“You’re freezing,” Dean mumbled in reply. He rubbed his hands up and down the tops of Cas’ arms. “Come on. Let’s get you home.”

Dr Moore had suggested radiotherapy instead of chemo whilst they waited on finding him a donor. The myeloma was too advanced to be ignored but she didn’t want to exhaust all his reserves until he needed to. She explained over and over what was going to happen. He’d feel tired, nauseas. Same old, same old. He couldn’t remember _not_ feeling tired and nauseas.

“Hey, baby. We’re back,” Dean said softly.

Cas blinked against the car window and peeled his face from it. He yawned. “Snowing again.”

“Yeah,” Dean agreed with a sigh. He looked out of the front window. The fine flakes melted as they met the glass, still warm from the engine and the heaters inside.

“Wonder if I’ll get to see it melt.”

“Cas,” Dean huffed and got out of the car. He didn’t come and open Cas’ door for him as he usually did.

Outside, his breath fogged in the air. He pulled Dean’s jacket close around himself and followed Dean into the lobby of his apartment building. Dean was climbing the stairs two at a time. Cas stared at the first flight with resentment. He stopped at the top of it, calves trembling. He gulped the air.

“Dean?”

No reply.

Cas shuffled towards the next set of stairs. He managed the first two, then stopped. He gripped the railings. Above him, a door slammed. “I’m sorry,” Cas called weakly. He clambered the rest of the way up the flight and then had stop again. He rested his head against the iron railings, coated with layers and layers of acrylic paint that did nothing to stop the heat-leeching cold.

“Dean?” Cas’ voice trembled. He sighed. He put his hand on the step and the slap of his palm echoed right up to the vaulted ceiling. Perhaps Dean had forgotten him. Perhaps that would be for the best. Cas imagined the flesh sliding off his bones. His eyelids were heavy. He hunched his knees up. Tired and nauseas. Shaking with cold.

Upstairs, a door opened. Cas blinked his sandy eyes. Had he fallen asleep? His limbs were still and he was cold to the heart of his soul.

He heard stumbling footsteps; slap, clatter, bang.

Dean touched the back of his neck. “Cas. I thought you’d go home.”

Cas turned lazily. _How?_

“I shouldn’t have left you here.”

“No.”

Dean spluttered and laughed.

Cas frowned. “Are you alright?”

“How can you even ask that? What?” Dean growled. He sat down heavily next to Cas.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You've got fucking cancer, Cas!” he shouted. Cas cringed. “And you’re asking _me_ if I’m alright.”

“Yeah.”

“Well don’t!” Dean shoved into him. Cas grabbed the railings in time to stop himself from hitting his head. “I’m sick of you pretending all the time like you’re not in pain or it’s not bothering you. And then you blow up in my face today and you still won’t talk about it!”

“What do you want me to say?” Cas asked, his voice monotone and hollow.

“I want to know how you feel! I want to hear what you’re thinking. I don’t even know what kind of cancer you have, Cas, and I don’t feel like I can ask you about it because you never want to bring it up!”

Dean’s words made the inside of Cas wilt. “What else can I do?”

“Act like you feel something!” Dean yelled.

The words echoed between them. Cas looked up at him. his eyes were swimming with tears, cheeks flushed with frustration. His teeth were slightly bared between his parted lips. _Oh, Dean._ Cas sighed, but didn’t say the words aloud.

“You can’t, can you?” Dean accused, tears spilling over.

Cas felt tiny and grotesque. He was hurting him. He should leave him, so he never had to feel like this again, but he was too selfish. He could feel mortality hanging over him and the fear of being alone was overwhelming. “I’m sorry.”

“That’s not enough.” Dean covered his face with his hands. “I feel marooned on a tiny desert island and I can see you way in the distance on this little boat that there’s no way I could ever reach.”

“I’m not leaving you.”

Dean lifted his head, eyes burning. “Aren’t you?”

Cas opened his mouth to speak again but the words wouldn’t come.

“Is the reason you won’t tell me what’s wrong with you because it’s really bad, or because it’s so negligible and treatable that it doesn’t matter?” Dean asked sourly.

“It’s myeloma.”

“What?”

“MYELOMA.” Cas yelled. Fear and anger bristled over him in waves of alternate hot and cold. “My bones are dissolving.”

Dean looked straight ahead. The flush from his cheeks was gone. He grabbed Cas’ hand and squeezed it tight. Now he knew. Now he understood.

“Sometimes I’m so scared that I can’t get out of bed,” Cas continued, his eyes squeezed firmly shut. “It’s suffocating me.”

“Baby – “

“Shut up. I hate it. I hate that you know. I hate that everybody knows.” Cas dropped Dean’s hand so he could knead his forehead. “The way people act you’d think I was already dead. Nobody looks at _me_ anymore. They look at _it._ ”

“I look at you.”

“Half the time,” Cas corrected bitterly. “I’m going to die and people are going to say ‘he was such a fighter’ and shit like that and it’s not true. I’m not a fighter. I’m a pushover. I want to lie down and let it consume me but I’m too scared, now. It’s fucking ironic, really. There have been times where I so wanted to die. And now look at me. I’m pathetic.”

“Wanting to live isn’t pathetic,” Dean muttered.

“Without this stupid bone marrow transplant I’m fucked, Dean, but even if I get it it’s not a guarantee.”

Dean’s shoulders trembled. Three tears fell and shattered against the linoleum floor. “I don’t want you to die.”

“I’m sorry.”

Dean sobbed, no hiding his tears anymore. Loud, heavy, shaking sobs that tore Cas to shreds inside. “Don’t go, Cas.” Dean said brokenly. “I love you.”

“Don’t say that now,” Cas whispered.

Dean lifted his head, smiling sadly. “Still true.”

“Dean, I…”

“You don’t need to say anything,” Dean insisted.

Cas sighed. “Okay.”

Dean got to his feet and offered Cas a hand. Cas took it and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet.


	17. Stages of Grief

“Alright, Winchester. I can tell something’s up with you,” Benny sighed impatiently. They had pulled their ambulance into a layby so they could eat their sandwiches. Dean had practically swallowed his whole and was now desperately trying to get his phone to connect to Wi-Fi. It wasn’t happening.

“I’m fine,” he answered gruffly.

Benny gave him serious side eye. “Look, brother. I don’t mean to stick my oar in.”

Dean sighed emphatically. There just wasn’t any cellular data coverage. He wasn’t going to be able to check his emails for another four hours, when his shift ended. “No, you’re not. I’m just pissed off at this piece of junk.” Dean tossed his phone back into his bag.

“You expecting a call?”

“Nah. It’s nothing.” Dean gulped. Gabe was supposed to be calling Jimmy. He said he’d let Dean know. So far he’d had no calls, no texts, and he couldn’t tell if he’d got any emails. What if Gabe had already told him and –

“Kid, your hands are shaking.”

Dean looked down. They really were. “Fuck,” he grumbled. He hopped out of the ambulance and took his bag with him. He rummaged around and produced his cigarettes. Benny climbed out after him, walking slowly around the bonnet to join him.

“Hey, uh.” Benny cleared his throat. “I was with Jo, yesterday.”

Dean blew an unsteady stream of smoke. “Oh yeah?”

“She said your boy – Castiel, is it?”

“Yeah.”

“She said there was something up with him.” Benny spoke slowly, holding eye contact with Dean, like he was a wild animal given to lashing out at him at any time. “Said he was sick.”

Dean took a long drag on his smoke and closed his eyes. “I’m going to kill Charlie.”

“Charlie?”

“I told her not to say anything,” Dean explained. He smiled weakly. “Oh, Christ.” He squeezed the back of his neck. Benny continued to watch with quiet caution.

“It’s not exactly hard to see it, brother.”

Dean’s shoulders stiffened. He knew it was true, but it was Cas’ biggest fear. Everyone knew. “It’s fine.”

Benny smiled sourly. “Right.”

“Look, if I wanted everyone poking around, I’d have made it common knowledge.”

Benny raised his hands in surrender. “Alright. I hear you.”

Dean huffed. He flicked his cigarette butt onto the ground. “Good.”

They both climbed back into the ambulance, and the day continued. Truth was, Dean found keeping secrets exhausting. He was no stranger to it, of course. He’d never told Sam about his dad’s drinking, not until the old man was six feet under. He never let on that he used to skip class in high school to make sure Sam got home safe after he heard that he was getting bullied. For years and years, he told nobody of his moonlight excursions under the glittering lights of Boston gay clubs. He’d even managed to keep his mouth shut that his mother was sick for as long as she’d wanted him to. He hadn’t even told Charlie about that one.

With his mom, it had been different. She knew what she was doing. She decided, pretty much straight away, that she was going to refuse treatment. That didn’t mean she wasn’t spending way more time at the hospital than anyone who doesn’t work there should. Dean noticed. Of course he noticed. In the end, she decided she needed an ally, and that’s what Dean became. He was happy to be her confidant, to drive her back and forth to appointment and hold her hand when her pain meds weren’t strong enough, and hold her yellow hair back off her face if she puked. She’d wanted him beside her, to be strong for her. She seemed to visibly brighten in his presence.

The other thing was, he could tell why she didn’t want Sam to know, and if Sam couldn’t know, nobody else could, either. Superficially it seemed like a selfish decision. Dean had certainly thought it at first, and told his mother as much. She’d smiled softly and explained the situation more carefully, and _he_ was the one left feeling selfish. There was no chance that she was going to get better. Why should she put herself through all of that to squeeze a few more miserable days out of her life, when she probably wouldn’t be conscious enough to notice them?

He had to agree with her that it was best to make the most of the time she had left. They ate out at fancy restaurants (though she never finished her food), they went to Sammy’s high school graduation in clothes that would have been more at home on the red carpet at the Oscars (though her dress had clung oddly to her spindly frame and she’d gripped Dean’s arm the whole night like she feared falling over). Dean drove the tree of them out to the lodge they used to stay in when they were kids. Mom had sat bundled in blankets and Dean and Sam had played in the lake under the sun, like it was July and not September, and they were twelve and sixteen and not eighteen and twenty-two.

With Cas… well. Dean couldn’t tell if Cas even wanted him around.

The day was a slow one, which was good because it meant that fewer people needed emergency medical attention, but it did nothing to distract Dean. Hours passed, still he heard nothing from Gabriel. At the end of the shift, he stood by his locker in the hospital, and didn’t even bother putting on a shirt before he called him. It went straight to answer phone.

It took a lot of will to refrain from throwing his phone hard at the wall.

Dean headed home. Fleetingly, he wished he’d never badgered Jo to find out about that party just a few months before. He wished Cas would have stayed distant and godlike, bursting with a thousand different kinds of light, glowing on stage like the first thing he’d ever seen clearly. It was only fleeting, though.

He liked the way Cas always tucked his head between Dean’s neck and his shoulder when he slept. How he watched TV with a little crease of concentration between his brows. He loved the little sounds he made when he slept, when he ate, when they fucked. It would have been complicated enough without the cancer, he thought. It would have been hard enough anyway.

When he’d eaten pizza and text Sammy ( _yo, skype tomorrow?_ ), Dean headed back out into the still-wintery chill and towards Cas and Gabe’s house. At this point he didn’t mind which brother he ran into. He sped the whole way there, which was something he didn’t normally let himself do. He hoped he didn’t get a ticket. He parked on the empty, frosty driveway of Cas and Gabe’s.

The lights were on downstairs, and Cas’ bedroom light was off. That meant Cas was either up, or so wiped out he’d actually committed to going to bed. Gabe’s face appeared between the curtains in the living room, and he darted away fast. Dean frowned and wandered towards the door.

Gabe yanked it open before Dean had a chance to knock. “It’s happening,” he said breathlessly.

Dean almost fell over with relief. “Yeah?”

“We can’t tell him yet.”

Dean frowned. “But…”

Gabe shook his head. “He’ll never agree to it.”

Dean’s stomach churned. Never?

“Come on, get in here and try not to look so constipated.”

Dean raised an eyebrow.

Gabe sighed in concession. “Alright. That’ll do.”

Dean stepped inside once the door was opened wide enough to allow him to. he peered into the living room. The TV was on, but both couches were empty. Sadly, he looked at the stairs.

“He’s in the kitchen,” Gabe said quietly.

“Huh?”

Gabe shrugged and went back into the living room.

There was various clinks and cracks coming from the kitchen. Dean approached slowly. He could smell fried veg. “Cas?” he called.

“In here!” Cas called back. His voice was clear and bell like.

He was dressed, for the first time in several days. His skinny jeans were loose but they were held on with a belt that looked to have had a new hole punched through it. His t-shirt was too big too, but he’d knotted it at his hip so it was pulled tight but ruched over his sliver-like frame. There was a flush of pink in his cheeks. The room was boiling hot. He was still wearing his new leather bands. He had a wooden spoon in his hand. When he saw Dean, he smiled brightly and his blue eyes twinkled. “Dean.”

“What are you doing?” Dean asked.

Cas put down the spoon and went over to the dining table. One end of it was made up, a red table runner placed between two placemats. There were two fat scented candles in the middle. Cas pulled one of the chairs out. “Sit,” he commanded.

Dean looked at the set up dumbly. “What’s all this?”

“I’m making quesadillas,” Cas explained, as though this were a perfectly ordinary occurrence. Dean said nothing. “Don’t you like quesadillas?” Cas looked hurt.

Dean blinked. “No. I mean, yes, I like them. But. Cas…”

“I’m fine!” Cas said brightly, with a jubilant laugh. “Sit down, go on. The food’s nearly ready.”

Dean sat down. He stared over at Cas. He moved around the kitchen with sleek efficiency. He flipped one of the quesadillas and then slid it onto a plate. He opened the oven and pulled out another. He carried them over to the table. He picked a bottle of wine from the floor under the table, and then finally sat down. He tried to take the cork out.

“Here, let me,” Dean offered.

“No. I got it,” Cas said quietly. After a while, the cork came free. He beamed and splashed red liquid into each of their glasses. “So, how was your day?”

Dean gulped. His mouth was dry. He sipped his wine. “Alright.”

Cas raised an absent eyebrow. “Just alright?” he asked, cutting his quesadilla into squares.

“I mean. I’m a paramedic. It’s either hellish or alright.”

Cas considered this. “Okay. That’s good then.”

“And how was your day?” Dean asked cautiously.

Cas sighed with a wistful smile. “I realised something.”

Chills ran down Dean’s spine. “Oh?”

“I had an appointment with Dr Moore, and do you know what she said?”

Dean gulped again.

“She said she would ‘encourage me to do the things I want to do’,” Cas said airily.

Dean’s heart thumped wildly in his chest. “Oh.”

“I don’t need to be encouraged to do the things I want to, do I?” Cas said conclusively. “If I want to be the lead singer in a band, I can be. If I want to be on tour with _Party Shock_ , I can be. I don’t need people to tell me that I should do what I want to do.” Cas was breathing heavily. He was still smiling but the expression was fixed and hollow. His hands were shaking on his utensils.

“Cas…”

“I don’t want to die miserable. I’ve tried that. It’s not what it’s cut out to be.” Cas inhaled sharply and speared food onto his fork. “I want to be happy. I want to make you happy. I want to love you and fuck you and be with you and I want to play guitar and sing and that’s how I want to go, not on my bathroom floor or in some shitty hospital bed whilst everyone I love and hate crowds around and looks at me like I’m nothing.”

Dean said nothing. He stared at Cas, feeling strangely ill. Cas looked up, frowning.

“Don’t you want your quesadilla?”

“I, uh. I already ate.”

Cas wilted. “Oh.”

“It looks really good though. I just don’t think I’ll be able to finish it.”

“It fine,” Cas muttered. He put his own knife and fork down. They both stared and their virtually uneaten food.

“Sorry.”

Cas shook his head. “It’s my fault.”

“No…”

“Yes, it is,” Cas snapped. He grabbed his glass and drank all his wine in one.

Dean cut a slice of quesadilla and ate it. Cas was looking decidedly away from him. “It’s good,” he said.

“Don’t bother,” Cas muttered miserably.

“No. It really it,” Dean insisted. Cas huffed. “Why don’t you eat some of yours?”

“I’m not hungry.”

Dean winced. “Why did you make all of this?”

Cas shoved his plate off the side of the table blindingly fast. It shattered loudly. Dean stared at the splattered mess of food and crockery shards. Gabe came running to the door. “What happened?” he demanded.

Cas said nothing. He got to his feet and went over to the sink. He dragged the bin over and started to clean up the mess.

“What the fuck?” Gabe murmured.

“Get out,” Cas growled.

Gabe narrowed his eyes. “What I do?”

“I said get out!” Cas said more loudly, throwing a tomato-streaked shard of plate in Gabe’s direction. It hit the pale tiles and fractured yet again. Gabe shook his head, and turned to walk away. He was muttering under his breath.

Cas got to his feet and yanked open the back door. It was cold outside, and it made his skin prickle pleasantly. The stars were hidden behind a thick grey blanket of clouds. Little smatters of rain pockmarked the patio. He sat on one of the iron chairs, let the water touch him quietly at first, but growing heavier and heavier until it was thick and loud like a shower, soaking through his thin clothes, through the canvas of his shoes and the cotton of his socks, so all of him was sat in a puddle held to his skin by garments.

He felt the cold air in his nose and mouth, felt it burn a cold trail down his trachea and press frost into his lungs. He felt the rise and fall of his own diaphragm, forcing those lungs to expand and contract against the burning chill. He could feel his wet toes against one another, fractionally number every moment, grating against the damp inside his socks. Water ran slick over his parted lips and stung his teeth, streamed over his gently closed eyes.

He could feel his heart throbbing in his chest, pulse jumping in his stomach and reaching out in ripples like those spread from a rock dropped in a pond, all the way to his fingertips. He could only hear the rain falling, falling and hitting the ground and the house and the trees and his body, pinging off the chairs, drumming against the wood. It felt like soon only his bones would be left, stripped clean of all his flesh and his blood and his cancer and his clothes. All of it would be washed away into nothing. And then even his bones would crumble.

They were already crumbling now. He imagined a blackness like tar clinging to his spine. He knew it wasn’t like that. It was in his bone marrow, and so in his blood. Bright red impostors. Liars in his veins.

“Cas!” Dean yelled. “Come inside.”

He opened his eyes and the rain stung them. “No.”

“Jesus, Cas!” Dean jogged outside. Cas heard his feet splashing. “Come on, baby. You’re freezing.”

“You’ll catch a cold,” Cas said distantly, peering up at Dean.

“Come back inside.”

“I like the rain,” Cas sighed. He closed his eyes.

“We can watch it through the window.”

“I don’t want to watch it. I want to feel it.” Cas took a deep breath. “It makes me… it’s making me…” he couldn’t find the words. Dean put his hands on Cas’ shoulders.

“Let me take you inside. Please.”

“I feel alive out here.”

Dean kissed him. The kiss was strange and frictionless. Cas was shaking. He hadn’t realised. Dean’s mouth was a shock of heat against Cas’. Suddenly he was icy and hungry for warmth. All will and determination dissipated and he looped his arms around Dean’s neck and let himself be cradled to his chest. Dean carried him inside, set him on the battered kitchen couch, and slid the door shut.

Cas was even colder now he was inside. “You’re shaking,” Dean whispered.

“Yeah,” Cas agreed. Dean helped him up the stairs. He peeled off Cas’ soaking clothes and dropped them onto the bathroom tiles with wet thuds. He took off his own clothes too. Cas yelped as the heat of the shower touched his skin. The chalkiness of him slowly bled pink. There was a red mark the shape of Canada on one of his shoulder blades, just above the arch of one of his wings but Dean didn’t say anything about it. He just pressed his lips to Cas’ skin, tongue gliding over every inked-in feather. Cas gasped and lay flat against the wall of the shower.

The water streamed between them.

“Dean…” Cas gasped. Dean stopped kissing. Cas twisted and looked back at Dean. That flush was back in his cheeks again. His eyes were heavy and half-closed with lust. “I trust you,” he whispered. Dean wasn’t sure how he heard it over the shower. He clutched Cas’ hand, raised against the wall.

It felt like it had been a hundred years since Cas had asked this of Dean. Way back when Dean still hadn’t known what Cas’ problem was. Now he was here, and gasping already. Cas let himself be worked. He threw his head back. It couldn’t be difficult, could it? But Cas was so _thin._ Dean was worried he was going to break him. He slid into him, heart pounding, waiting for Cas to cry out or plead for him to stop. Cas only continued to gasp. Dean ran his hands over all of Cas’ colours and he writhed against the wall.

“God, Dean,” he begged. “ _Move_.”

Dean took a moment before he could make himself respond. He moved uncertain, unsteady. Cas moaned delightfully. Dean could barely concentrate on the sounds that he was making. Cas’ knees seemed to give out and Dean swept an arm around him to keep him steady. The angle at which they were joined was altered just a little, and Dean seemed to go further. Cas near screamed, the sound broken and delicious, but Dean forced himself, reluctantly, to stop the stutter of his hips.

“Cas?” he panted.

“Harder,” Cas pleaded.

Dean obliged. Cas screamed, his head thrown back so it rested on Dean’s shoulder.

“Fuck, _fuck,_ ” Dean hissed. He came with a shout, body arching forwards. Cas moved, resting his head against the wall. Dean was still holding him upright. Cas’ face slid down the tiles. Dean slipped out of him and trembled a little. Cas slumped right to the floor. “Shit!” he hissed. He shut off the water.

Cas was curled against the wall, his legs like a bundle of useless twigs bent under his body. Dean crouched beside him, lifting his face. Cas’ eyes were bright pink around the blue. “Cas? Are you alright? Did I hurt you?”

“I’m alive,” Cas choked.

Dean blinked. Cas sobbed brokenly. Dean pulled him close to his chest. “Yeah, you’re alive.” Dean promised. “Come on. Let’s go to bed before you freeze.”

Cas laughed tearfully, and allowed himself to be hoisted to his feet and towelled off.

“You want anything?” Dean asked, when Cas was dressed in soft flannel pyjamas and a grey beanie.

Cas considered for a moment. “A jar of Nutella and a spoon,” Cas concluded.

Dean grinned. “You kidding?”

Cas shook his head. “There’s a jar of Nutella in the cupboard where we keep the coffee.”

Dean went and retrieved the requested items. Cas took them with a grin. “I love you,” he said. The space between them reverberated. Dean blushed. Fresh tears glistened down Cas’ cheeks.

“Aww, man. Don’t start crying again,” Dean complained.

Cas chuckled. “Sorry.”

“Ah, shut up,” Dean huffed. He slumped down next to Cas on the mattress. “Do you think Gabe…?”

“Oh, yeah. Totally. I have a whore mouth,” Cas said around his spoon.

Dean’s face went even redder. “Aww, crap.”

Cas shrugged. “Eh. He’s used to it.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”

“Jealous?”

Dean chewed his lip. “You bring a lot of guys home? Before?”

Cas frowned. He screwed the lid back onto his jar and set it on the bedside table. “Does that upset you?”

Dean lay down, head in Cas’ lap. He could feel the boniness of his legs even through the duvet. “Not really, I guess.”

“But it does a little,” Cas concluded.

Dean didn’t deny that. Instead, he closed his eyes and let Cas smooth his hair with his cool fingers.

“How about you?” Cas asked.

“I don’t know. I guess it was a lot. Boys and girls.”

“Which was the exception?”

Dean laughed a single note. “Neither.”

Cas hummed in consideration, but didn’t falter in his petting. “You think you’re going to go back to that, after?”

“After what?”

Cas gulped. “Me.”

“I’m not leaving you,” Dean said, frowning.

“No. But. I. I don’t know how much time. I don’t think. I don’t want.” Cas broke off his stuttering.

“I don’t want to talk about this,” Dean told him, quietly. He rolled and peered up at Cas.

Cas nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”

“Are you alright?”

Cas laughed, shaking his head. “I’m terrified.”

Dean moved and sat beside him. “I’m right here,” he promised, clutching Cas’ hand.

“This is going to hurt you,” Cas whispered. He curled into Dean’s side.

“It’s already hurting me,” Dean agreed. He twisted. They kissed. Cas tasted of tears. "God, you're beautiful."

“I’m a rock star, you know,” Cas reminded him, peering up at him coyly.

“I know, baby.” Dean sighed to hide the cracks in his voice.


	18. The Bell Rings

It was thirty minutes until the first performance on the West Coast leg of _Party Shock_ ’s tour. The Rolling Stone spread of Castiel and Cole Gagarin was open on the coffee table of the huge hotel suite they’d been installed in at the expense of the record company. There was a trail of red splatters from the sofa to the bathroom. Cas was sitting on the lid of the toilet seat, holding a hand towel to his face. It was slowly turning from white to red.

Michael hovered in the doorway, looking furious.

“I should call your doctor,” Gabe fussed.

“No,” Cas said thickly. “It’ll stop in a minute.”

“Man, this is not a normal amount of blood to lose,” Gabe mumbled.

Cas took the towel away from his face for a moment a thick clot of blood fell from his nose to the seat of his jeans.

“Gross,” Michael muttered.

Cas laughed and put the towel back up.

“What can I do?” Gabe asked, stricken.

“Get me frozen peas or something,” Cas instructed. His voice sounded like he had a cold. Gabe scuttled out of the room.

“Will sweetcorn do?” he asked meekly after a moment.

Cas nodded. He took the bag and wrapped his sticky towel around them.

“You going to be able to stand on stage?”

“Yeah. Could you grab me some coke?”

“I don’t think - ”

“Not the drug, Gabe,” Cas explained exasperatedly.

Michael nodded and stepped out of the room.

“Fucking hell Cas,” Gabe said quietly as soon as they were alone. “What’s going on?”

“It’s happened before.”

“I know,” Gabe said.

“It’s the chemo. It runs my blood levels down.” Cas was an expert now. He took the towel away. “I think it’s stopped.”

“I thought that your bloods were fine,” Gabe agonised.

“They were, but they can fuck up.” Cas didn’t want to remind Gabe that he’d witnessed just that only a few weeks before.

“You want me to call Dean?”

“God, no,” Cas groaned. He looked down at himself. His chest was streaked with blood around his tubes. “Great. That’s going to feel gross when it dries.”

“You can shower.”

“No time.”

Gabe grimaced. “Fuck, Cas. This is a bad idea.”

“Ah well,” Cas sighed. “Can you tell there’s blood on my jeans?”

Gabe assessed him. “Yes.”

“Does it look punk rock?”

Gabe laughed. “Yeah, I guess.”

Cas smiled. He glanced in the mirror and groaned. “Better get it off my face, though,” he concluded.

“Agreed. What shirt you wearing?”

“Now Kurt Cobain is out of commission, I don’t know.”

“You’ve got that cancer one?” Gabe suggested.

“Ugh. It’s lilac. It’ll clash with the red.”

Gabe rolled his eyes. “Of course, you don’t want something that would clash with the blood on your pants, do you? That’d be ridiculous.”

Cas was running the sink full of water. “Exactly,” Cas agreed with a grin. He splashed his face. I dribble of blood ran from his nose but he swiped it aside before Gabe could spot it. Unsteadily, he made his way back into the living room in the middle of the suite. The picture of him shrinking under Cole Gagarin’s arms stared out at them.

“So, what are you going to wear?” Gabe demanded.

Cas staggered through to his bedroom, where his suitcase was open on the bed next to Dean’s. He’d gone to meet Charlie and Jo outside the venue. He picked through his stuff. None of it was very inspiring. The comfy grey shirt he’d worn in the car. The red jumper he wore to bed. Pyjamas. He flipped open Dean’s case for inspiration. In the middle was a neatly folded grey square. There was a scrap of paper on top of it. _Cas – you’re a rock star, you know x._

Cas unfolded the shirt. It was thin and tattered, the back slashed open in jagged cuts. He pulled it on. It hung loose enough that it hid his catheter. He glanced in the mirror. Overall, it wasn’t so bad. it was going to hurt when he peeled his new jeans off his legs later, after the blood had dried them to his skin.

He’d been on the stage that afternoon for sound checks, but now that it was time everything felt different. He was breathing sweat and excitement. In a shard of mirror bolted to the wall, his pupils were blown wide in his eyeliner. He lifted his guitar over his head and positioned the strap over his shoulder.

“You ready?” Michael asked.

Cas laughed. “Yeah.”

“You got a little,” Michael gestured at his upper lip.

Cas swiped a smear of blood with his knuckle. “Thanks.”

“Don’t die on me,” Michael warned.

“Not today.”

Michael nodded seriously. “Right, let’s do this.”

That afternoon the theatre had been empty. Cas had sat with Cole on the steps down to where the crowd would stand and looked at the huge empty space in front of them. Cas had tried to imagine what it would be like when the space was full; hundreds of bodies pressed together. He’d been in crowds at big gigs like that before. He could only dream up the scene as he’d always experienced. A member of the audience.

No more.  

The crowd was a swarming mass of indistinct shapes, moving around one another, the fuzz of a dead channel, flies on a carcass, screaming. The sound was immense, hundreds over voices trying to be heard over one another and forming one, wordless glob of noise. There were sparkles; flashes on phones; glints of the lights off people’s glasses.

Cas was struck by a huge sense of power. He stepped out and took the mic in both of his hands. They didn’t know him. None of them knew him. They knew the music. That was it. Cas breathed deep. “Be obedient, children,” he said. The crowd roared. Cas glanced over his shoulder, at Gabe behind his drum kit. The lights are perfect. Against the grey back of the stage, three huge pairs of wings loomed amongst choppily drawn satanic sigils. Gabe counted in the first track, _New Boss._

“I saw a star fallen from heaven unto earth,” Cas whispered right close into the mic. “To him was given the key to the abyss.” And then he stepped back and played the opening riff. The set was passing fast, and Cas moved and sang and played, powered by some strange unknown energy, as though he really was some kind of angel, being controlled by strings like a marionette, just like he said in his songs.

He sang and played and he became indefeasible. He didn’t have cancer. There were no tubes in his chest. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t going to get a bone marrow transplant because he was something else. He was untouchable. He could live forever, like that. At the end of _Dogfish_ Cas dropped his head and saw ruby splatters at his feet. The crowd were rapturous. “Okay, I think we’re going to play you one last song and then we’ll let _Party Shock_ come on, alright?”

The crowd answered with its many-voiced reply.

Cas turned and looked from Gabe to Michael. Michael nodded stoically. Gabe looked horrified. Cas wiped his face with the back of his hand and took a long breath, because he wasn’t a god. He was Castiel. Whatever those poor souls beneath him thought in their strange misguided ways, he was just a man.

He turned back to the crowd.

“This song is called _Nepenthe._ ”

Cas drew a long breath. He could taste blood in his mouth. It was the slowest song in their set.

“ _Brother, take my hand…_

_Where will this end?_

_Brother, understand…_

_I never meant for you to know exactly what I am._

_Can you feel the sun?_

_Can you feel the sun,_

_As it cracks and peels your skin?_

_Can you feel the one?_

_Can you feel the one,_

_That’s going to break you from within?_

_Brother, take my hand…_

_Feel the wind under your wings._

_Brother, understand…_

_This will never be what it ought to be and it can never go as planned._

_I can’t sleep,_

_Nepenthe,_

_Bring me,_

_Can you feel the sun?_

_Can you feel the sun,_

_As it cracks and peels your skin?_

_Can you feel the one?_

_Can you feel the one,_

_That’s going to break you from within?”_

Cas’ eyes were closed. He was lost in Michael’s whispered repetitions of the lyrics as they played the fade out. The lights turned low. The crowd cheered. Cas staggered back. It was over. He was done. He couldn’t make himself move. Someone took his arm, led him off the stage. His guitar was lifted over his head. He didn’t think until he could feel the cool night air against his sweat-damp skin.

“Alright, Cassie,” Gabe said softly.

Cas, with great difficulty, forced his eyes to focus on his brother. “No more, now.”

Gabe shook his head. “No more.”

Cas leaned against the stone wall, his eyelids heavy. He felt a glut of blood fall out of him. “Should probably… call somebody…” He threw up on the steps.

* * *

 

 

Before the show, anticipation fizzed through the crowd. Dean held fast to Charlie’s hand. Jo strayed a few feet in front. They were playing some crappy scene kid music that took Dean back to high school, to falling for the creepy kid at the back of class. The one with long dark hear and a studded belt and a cigarette between his fingers. That kid was the reason Dean started to smoke. His girlfriend at the time had been called Cassie, which was ironic, he supposed. He thought he’d gotten over the whole soft-goth thing, but his affection for Cas would suggest otherwise.

The insanity of that thought sent him laughing. It was too loud for Charlie to ask him what was funny so she just laughed too, and they danced, twisting in time with the music. Cas was going to play on that stage, in front of all those people. Cas Milton. And Dean had slept with him. A proper rock star.

The empty stage was dark. Dean could see one of the long leads draped across it twitch. He imagined Cas lifting on his guitar, positioning it over his shoulder. The music died off and the attention of the entire crowd piqued around Dean. He reared on his toes, trying to glimpse figures on the shadowy stage. He heard them before he saw them, a flurry of notes along the neck of Cas’ guitar. Sound erupted around him, the crowd rippled with volcanic heat. The throb of Michael’s bass echoed through Dean’s chest. The lights shifted, blue at their feet, the rest of them in shadow.

A lonely mic stand was right at  the front of the stage. The slimmest figure crept towards it. It was Cas. There. On the stage. Dean yelled wordlessly, and so did a hundred other people. His pale fingers curled around the mic. The lights changed, huge black wings loomed behind him. He was wearing the shirt that Dean had picked. It was almost too much.

“Be obedient, children,” Cas murmured, his voice velvet smooth. A shiver ran up Dean’s spine. Fuck, he was a _god._

Cas read a quote from Revelations and everyone around Dean yelped. The response to Cas and the others on the stage was amazing. It was weird; Dean had heard them rehearse almost all of the songs, and he'd even seen them play a few of them at a real gig, though that was now some time ago. They were different on that stage. Cas was different. He occupied the space like he was always meant to. Maybe it was just the equipment or it might have been the atmosphere, but it was like realising all over again that this band wasn't just good, it was great. The bulk of that was Cas. He carried them on his painted shoulders. He stood like a cripple barely managing to stay upright, slumped forwards, lips moving right against the microphone the way they moved and whispered things in Dean's ear when they lay together in bed. Cas was all at once invincible and so crushingly and beautifully mortal.

The world would be bereft of Cas when he was gone. There would be a bleeding wound carved out in his shape; a great front man lost, slipped into the abyss. Everyone in that theater knew it.

During the third song Dean noticed Cas’ nose was bleeding. It was slow at first, a thin line dripping from just one nostril, barely skirting the top of his upper lip. Then it got worse. The blood dripped and ran down his mouth, painting his lips scarlet. He swiped at it, smearing it over his cheeks. He left dark smudges on the pale wood of the neck of his guitar. Still, he didn’t seem to notice it was there.

Dean was clutching Charlie’s hand. “Something’s wrong,” he shouted to her.

“Is he _bleeding?_ ” Charlie demanded.

“I don’t know,” Dean replied desperately. They could barely hear each other over everyone else, and over Cas, still singing.

The blood was down his neck now, starting to soak into his new shirt. _He was going to kill himself._ The thought twisted grim and uncomfortable in Dean's stomach. Was that what this was about? Was that the manic energy that somehow kept Cas standing when Dean knew for a fact that staying on his feet was struggle most days. He couldn’t just stand there and watch it happen. he had to do something, but what the hell could he do? He looked around, whipping his head violently in search of an emergency escape, but he saw nothing. The event stewards loomed around the edges of the crowd. What would Dean say to them? They’d never believe him that Cas was his boyfriend. They’d never listen if he told them he needed to stop, to get off the stage _right now_ or he was going to bleed out in front of all of those people.

Why didn’t anyone else care? Did they think it was some kind of stunt? The Rolling Stone spread with Cas and Cole Gagarin had told the world that he was sick, and Cas’ cocky shirt choice seemed to hint at his diagnosis, but they didn’t _know_ , did they? To them, he was just some rock star, but he needed to stop, because it was stupid now, and was he really going to just carry on with his set like it wasn’t happening? Fuck. _Fuck._ He had to do something.

He was pushing through the crowd. Charlie was following him, reaching and grabbing fistfuls of his shirt. “Dean! What are you doing!”

“I have to do something,” Dean replied, throat raw. He grabbed the forearm of one of the stewards and he turned, livid. “You need to do something, he’s bleeding!” Dean said desperately. The steward jerked his arm away and left him. “Fuck!”

He started back from the crowd, towards the huge doors cut into the slope up to the stairs. It seemed miles away. He pressed on towards it, panic driving him forwards. He could hear Charlie behind him, yelling his name. he pushed teenage girls aside, some of them wearing shirts with Cas’ face on them, photos from the Rolling Stone shoot and older ones from when Cas still had hair. The shirts had rainbow wings on the back of them, but they were nothing on Cas’ tattoos.

Behind Dean, the music stopped. “Okay,” Cas said. He sounded exhausted. “We’re… going to do one… last song.” He sounded out of breath. Dean’s heart ached. “And then we’ll let _Party Shock_ come on… alright?”

The girls around Dean screamed. He dived for the exit just as the music started up again. The minor chords made the hairs on the back of Dean’s neck stand on end. He heard Cas take a breath, echoed through the whole theatre. Dean didn’t know this one. “Brother… take my hand…” Cas began. Dean gulped. He was rooted to the spot.

“Hey, I thought you were trying to leave?” Charlie hissed loudly.

Dean shook his head and held up a hand to silence Charlie. The song unfolded. Dean felt like he knew it already but he was certain he’d never heard it before in his life. Nepenthe. The dream potion. All the bleeding and the gasping and not being able to make it up the stairs. Dean couldn't put himself in Cas' place. It was too big a thing for him to imagine. Cas was not quiet and brave until the end. He was brilliant. He burned like a candle with a wick at both ends. All of them standing there were moths drawn to his flame. Even Dean. Especially Dean. 

The lights had changed. They were softer. They fell only on Cas. His milky skin was glowing. The red on his upper lip and chin was glistening dark black. His eyes were closed. He stood side on to the mic, leaning over his shoulder as he played the guitar. Dean could see his carefully etched-feathers. He was beautiful. Resplendent.

The song finished.

Cas staggered back to the edge of the light. It seemed to rain down over him, liquid and glorious. The shadows of his arms spread across the ground like wings, poised to take flight.

The lights went down.

Everyone cheered.

“Dean,” Charlie yelled over the din. “We’ve got to go.”

The stage was so dark that Dean couldn’t make Cas out anymore. He turned back towards the door and started to march out. The lobby was empty and cold after the heat of the theatre. They went outside the main doors and cut down the side of the building to the parking lot where Dean had dropped Cas off that afternoon. The door to back stage was open. Two figures were on the steps.

Dean’s phone buzzed in his pocket.

“Dean, Cas is -”

“Bleeding, I know. I can see you on the steps.”

Dean hung up and jogged the rest of the way. Cas was sitting with his head in his hands. It was too real, seeing him there, after the way he’d seemed on stage. “Cas,” Dean said breathlessly. Cas lifted his head. The floodlights that bleached the car park lit his eyes up. They shone. “You were amazing.”

“Really?” Cas asked. He smiled. There was blood on his teeth. Dean didn’t care. He kissed him. He tasted sour, like puke.

“Like a proper rock star.”

“Told you.” Cas’ lips moved to form the words but no sound came out of him. “Dean, I think I need to go to hospital.”

Dean gulped. He looked over at Gabe, then down at a puddle of sick that was dripping down the stairs, which he hadn’t noticed. “Yeah. Probably a good idea.”

“Can you help me up?” he asked weakly.

Dean kissed Cas’ forehead. “I got you, rock star.”


	19. That's the Place

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I realised I'd forgotten to add the time-stamp things I have in my original document of this fic when I copied them over to here. I've added them in now, which should clear up any ambiguity as to how much time has been passing. Sorry about that!

Dean splashed water on his face. The lights in the hospital bathroom were bright and unforgiving. He looked ashen. The shadows under his eyes looked like bruises. The toilet in one of the cubicles flushed and Gabe emerged, looking about as battered as Dean. They were both still wearing the clothes they’d had on at the gig. Dean’s blue _Seraphims_ shirt was smattered and smeared with dark stains of Cas’ blood. Gabe still had a pair of beaten drumsticks poking out of the pocket of his jeans.

Gabe swilled water round his mouth and spat it in the sink. Dean tried to pretend he didn’t know Gabe had just been throwing up. Dean was worried he might throw up himself.

The lights flickered. Dean looked at Gabe as he was reflected in the mirror. He gulped audibly. “I, uh. I should call Jimmy. He’ll be getting on his plane.”

Dean exhaled. “Right.”

Dean slipped out of the bathrooms and stared down the hallway of the oncology ward. The private rooms were at the end, past the outpatient room. Cas was sealed in one of them, a ventilator down his throat.

“Dean?”

Dr Moore spoke in that slowed down, sympathetic way that meant she was going to give Dean some bad news. She tucked a loose strand of blonde hair behind her ear.

“How is he?”

“Stable, for the moment. But he’s not going home any time soon.”

Dean nodded and chewed the inside of his lip. Cas wasn’t going to be happy about that.

“He was badly dehydrated when you brought him in.”

“He won’t drink water. He says it tastes bad.”

Dr Moore nodded. “It’s a common side effect of chemotherapy. It’s really important he’s getting enough fluids, though.”

“Right. I’ll do better.”

“You know none of this is on you, Dean,” Dr Moore told him softly.

Dean hunched his shoulders. “No?”

She drew a sharp breath and nodded at him. “How much do you know about multiple myeloma?”

Dean shook his head. He had done some very limited reading. “It’s bone marrow cancer? It has a pretty poor prognosis?”

“Do you know what it does?”

“Dissolves his bones, right?”

Dr Moore nodded. “In normal people, when a bone gets broken or damaged, the body breaks down the damaged bone and replaces it, fixing the fracture. In patients with myeloma, the chemical the body uses to break down bone is over produced without being triggered by breaks or injuries, and new bone isn’t being made to replace what’s being broken down. It can be painful, and it makes the bones brittle and more susceptible to breaks.”

“Has he broken something?” Dean asked.

“No, but it’s something you need to be aware of. The other thing that happens when bone is broken down is that a large amount of calcium is released into the bloodstream.” She said this as though the implication was grim and obvious.

“And what does that mean?” Dean pressed. He knew what it meant, somewhere in his mind, but his memory was foggy with panic.

“It puts strain on the kidneys. We’ve been monitoring Cas’ renal function for a while -”

“He didn’t say anything,” Dean cut in.

“Are you surprised?” Dr Moore challenged smoothly. Dean had no response for that. “So, we’ve been monitoring renal function for a while. I’ve been trying to make it clear to Cas that he needs to make sure that he’s drinking enough.”

Dean’s guts writhed. “So, what’s happened now?”

“We’re going to start dialysis in the morning,” Dr Moore told Dean smoothly.

Dean steadied himself against the wall. “So his kidneys are failing, then?”

“It’s been happening for a while,” she told him quietly.

“Damn it, Cas,” Dean said through gritted teeth.

“His brother, has he agreed to do the bone marrow transplant?”

Dean nodded. “Is this going to ruin his chances?”

“Cas is going to need a kidney transplant.”

“Instead?”

“No. As well.”

Dean gulped. “That sounds… complicated.”

“Actually, doing both at the same time with the same donor is likely to reduce chances of organ rejection, which is a good thing.”

“The same… donor?” Dean asked. He felt really sick now.

“It’s a big ask,” Dr Moore admitted. A big ask? Jimmy and Cas hadn’t spoken for years, and now they were asking him for his marrow _and_ his kidney? Dean was no idiot. The risks and impacts of donating bone marrow were small. Plenty of people gave complete strangers their bone marrow. It was straight forward, almost.

Solid organs were whole different ball-park. Very few organs can come from living donors; kidneys; pieces of liver; very occasionally and in very precise circumstances, lobes of lungs. Liver is the least risky, because after a while, new tissue grows to replace what parts were removed. Kidney transplants, however, leave the donor with one kidney for the rest of their life. No contact sports for the rest of his life. Long term health risks. Major surgery. It was a _very_ big ask.

Dean sat in one of the plastic chairs in the oncology hallway. Gabe joined him after a while. “Jimmy’s on his way.”

Dean didn’t look up from the square of linoleum he’d been staring at for the last fifteen minutes. “You spoke to Dr Moore?”

In Dean’s periphery, Gabe’s face twisted in answer.

Dean nodded. “You said anything to Jimmy?”

Gabe sighed. “I think it’s the kind of thing you should probably ask someone in person,” he concluded grimly.

“Yeah,” Dean agreed.

“Cas still out?”

“I don’t know,” Dean admitted. “Fuck. We’re going to have to tell him.”

“Dr Moore said she’d do it.”

“No, man,” Dean protested. “That’d be bad.”

“It’s going to be bad anyway.”

“What, because we hid it from him?” Dean scoffed. “Like he’s never hidden anything from us before.”

An hour later, Dean was driving to the airport in stony silence. Gabe was staring out of the passenger window. Outside, the grey morning was breaking. Smatters of rain distorted the world outside. Dean didn’t turn on the windscreen wipers until he could barely see the car in front of him, and even then he kept them on slow, so that for whole seconds the window would contort and twist as rain glanced off it, like they were looking at the world through the white of an egg.

Dean parked right up front and Gabe hopped out of the car, running through the rain. He disappeared through the sliding doors.

Dean drummed his fingers on the edge of the window. He wondered how he’d ended up in this kind of mess. He blamed Cas, fleetingly, hideous guilt coursing through him. in the beginning he’d told himself it didn’t change anything, but it did. It changed _Cas_. Trying to pretend like that wasn’t true was almost as bad as Cas lying about it in the first place. Dean closed his eyes, listening to the hum of the engine and the hammer of the rain on the roof.

Knuckles rapped against the passenger window, and the door was pulled wide. Gabe hopped into the backseat, dragging a suitcase behind him. Dean watched in the rear view mirror. Another man slipped in beside Dean. Dean glanced at him.

He thought he was ready. He wasn’t.

To say that Jimmy looked like Cas would not have been enough. He looked exactly as Cas had looked before, like he had the day Dean had met him. Wearing an oversized sweatshirt and a pair of blue jeans, it was hard for Dean not to stare. It was almost like a miracle, like Cas had been perfectly resurrected. But Cas wasn’t dead.

Dean tried to silence a small voice that whispered _not yet._

“Hey, I’m Jimmy,” Jimmy introduced himself with a lopsided smile. Dean’s heart leapt. They even smiled the same, Christ. He glanced at Gabe in the rear view mirror; _help me._

“Dean,” Dean replied. He did not offer Jimmy his hand. He didn’t want to touch him. It was like seeing a ghost.

 

Cas stirred and wished he hadn’t. He felt dead. There was no energy in his limbs. He was completely and utterly drained.

“Cas?”

His mother’s voice. How strange. He blinked, peering over at her.

“How are you feeling?” his father asked, standing behind her. His tone suggested mild irritation. He was wearing a business suit and had his arms crossed over his tie. His mother’s earrings sparkled, and so did her eyes, as though she was about to cry.

“Where’s Dean?” Cas tried to ask, but the words didn’t leave him. He was silent and crumpled in his bed. Realisation crept through him slowly. He was too tired to even speak.

“You’ve been asleep for hours,” his father hissed.

“Godfrey,” his mother berated him gently.

“How much good is it going to do him, laying about like that?”

Cas couldn’t be bothered trying to summon the will to defend himself. He closed his eyes and wished they would go away, but instead, they continued to bicker as though they assumed he’d drifted out of consciousness again. He thought it was fairly safe to assume they’d been arguing like that before he’d opened his eyes. He wondered what they were doing there. Vaguely, he remembered Dr Moore saying something about his kidneys, but he couldn’t recall what. He could feel something hot and twitching against his chest. He opened his eyes (the lids were so heavy, like they were made of lead) and looked down. There were two tubes, wider than he’d had before, snaking across his body to a large, unfamiliar machine. Distantly, he understood what was happening. This is called dialysis, Castiel. It means you’re dying faster than we thought.

He closed his eyes, just resting them a little, and when he opened them again, his parents were gone. The room was quiet. The dialysis machine was gone too. Cas lifted his head; this was an improvement on his last stirring already. Dean was sitting in the armchair next to his bed, dozing. A definite improvement on his parents. “Dean,” he croaked. The sound of his voice shocked him. It was so thin and quiet. Not nearly enough to wake Dean up.

It took a moment for Cas to remember how to move his arms, and yet another to summon the willpower. There was a heavy clip on his finger. He reached out and touched Dean’s cheek. He started awake.

“Cas? You alright?” Dean asked, harried.

“Fine,” Cas said in his crepe paper voice.

Dean smiled sadly. “You’re a terrible liar.”

Cas cough-laugh-wheezed. “I’m really not.”

Dean shrugged. “Yeah, well.” Cas half-cracked a smile. “Dr Moore told me she’s been watching your kidneys.”

Cas shifted against his pillows. “I didn’t want to worry you.”

Dean closed his eyes, summoning patience. “Damn it, Cas.”

“Sorry.”

“You got to stop hiding shit from me.”

Cas shrugged. He looked up and the square panelled ceiling. “Yeah, well.”

“Awh, Cas,” Dean groaned. When Cas peered over at him, he had his face in his hands.

“What?”

“There’s… there’s someone here to see you,” he said grimly.

Cas frowned. “Who?”

“I’ll. I’ll just.” Dean got up.

“Don’t leave me,” Cas mumbled. The grossness of that pathetic plea made him want to shrivel up into nothing. He played with the loose strands hanging from the leather bands that hid his scars.

“Cas,” Dean protested weakly. He shook his head. “I’ll just be a minute.”

Cas tried to steel himself, but when he closed his eyes, he felt tears ooze down his cheeks. He wasn’t sure what information he was missing, but it had to be something important.

The door opened again. There was a sharp intake of breath.

“Dean?” Cas asked.

“He’s here, kiddo,” Gabe promised.

Cas felt Dean’s hand appear over his and squeeze gently. Cas opened his eyes, looking right at Dean, sitting next to him. Dean looked slightly green. He was staring at Cas with unease.

“What?” Cas asked.

“Uh, hey, Castiel.” The voice wasn’t just familiar, it was stolen from him. Cas’ hair stood on end. He turned. He saw himself, well, standing at the end of the bed. He heard his spiking heart rate played out on the EKG next to his bed, rhythmic bleeps getting faster and faster until they set off an alarm. Dr Moore pushed the door open and stepped into the now crowded room.

“Calm down,” she told him, moving to the side of the bed. “It’s alright, just breathe.”

Cas gasped, lungs burning. He hadn’t realised he’d been holding his breath. His grip on Dean’s hand must have been vice-like because he could no longer feel his fingers.

“You should have told me before bringing him in here,” Dr Moore growled at Dean.

“I- I’m sorry,” Dean stuttered.

Cas dropped his hand like it was on fire. “You knew?” Cas yelped, pulse quickening even more.

“I would have come sooner,” Jimmy explained, his eyes wide and blue and desperate. Cas hated him, from his pink, un-chapped-lips to the way his clothes didn’t hang off him, and the way he had colour in his cheeks, and the way he was just standing there, like it took no energy at all. He remembered the look on Jimmy’s face when he’d been standing on his parent’s porch and Cas had stepped out, wondering what the yelling was. That moment of utter betrayal. _You are everything I could have had._

Cas threw up on the bed, as if to emphasise his frailty.

“Jesus!” Jimmy barked.

Dr Moore turned angrily to Gabe. “Get him out of here!” she commanded. Gabe took Jimmy, whose eyes were locked on Castiel, by the arm and dragged him out of the room. “Cas, you need to take deep breaths, come on.”

Cas couldn’t breathe out. He could only breathe in, in, in –

He threw up again, gasping. “Fuck, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s alright. Dean, hold this,” she said smoothly, pressing a cardboard bowl into Dean’s hand. He held it up to Cas’ chin. Cas glared at him for a second and then threw up again.

“I’m so sorry,” Dean whispered. “I’m so, so sorry.”

“Shut up, shut up,” Cas moaned. Dean put the bowl down and got some paper towels from the metal table by the window, and dabbed them at Cas’ chin. Cas leaned back. “I need more of those,” he said. Dean piled them onto his wet chest. Cas screwed up his face. “What the fuck is this,” he groaned. “What the fuck is the point of any of this _bull shit._ ” Cas sat up and shoved the wet towels onto the floor.

“I don’t think- ”

“Shut the _fuck_ up,” Cas cried. He swung his legs out of the bed and staggered two steps to the door before he collapsed. “Make him leave!” he yelled.

“Cas, I-”

Dr Moore came back in, a nurse on her tail. “I think you should step out for a moment,” she told Dean.

Dean stared down at Cas, now curled on the floor on his side. Dr Moore reached down. “Don’t touch me!” Cas barked. “Don’t touch me.”

“Okay, okay!” Dr Moore soothed. “I’m not going to touch you.”

“Cas,” Dean pleaded.

“Dean, step out of the room.”

“Why are you doing this to me?” Cas wailed.

“I can’t sit back and watch you die.”

“I don’t want any of this,” Cas croaked.

“Baby, please get up off the floor.”

“I can’t move.”

Dr Moore and the nurse were now standing back, letting Dean get closer. “I know you can,” Dean said softly.

“I don’t want to.”

“I know,” Dean whispered. “I’m sorry.” He sat down on the floor next to Cas.

“Castiel?”

“Cas,” Cas corrected.

Dean looked up at her and she smiled. “What can I do for you?” she asked.

“I just want to stay here for a while,” Cas replied, very quietly.

“I can go if you like,” Dean offered.

“No,” Cas sighed. “Stay.” He reached out of himself and took Dean’s hand again, very limply.

“I’m right here, baby.”

“We need to get you back into bed, Cas. I’m sorry.”

Cas heaved himself up. Dean put a steady hand on the small of his back. Cas wretched but nothing came out of him. The bed was a mess, sheets thrown aside, a thin tube snaking from a bag at the end of Cas’ bed over to where he lay, disappearing under the hem of his hospital gown. The front of it was unbuttoned, his other catheters hanging out against the cloth. Dean took one of his arms and Dr Moore the other, and between them they could bear most of his weight. They pulled him to his feet and let him hobble slowly back to the bed. He sat on the edge. Dean took his face in his hands, smiling at him like he wasn’t pathetic, like he hadn’t just thrown a tantrum like a toddler.

Dr Moore checked Cas over, inspecting various lines and tubes. When she clipped the heart monitor back onto his finger, he grimaced.

“The nurse can switch to chest pads, if you’d prefer,” Dr Moore offered.

Cas nodded. “Hurts my finger,” he admitted.

“Anywhere else hurting?”

“My head,” Cas admitted, shrugging. “All of the rest of me.”

“Anything feel broken?”

Cas shook his head.

Dr Moore nodded. “Good.”

The nurse stuck two circles of sticky plastic Cas’ chest and clipped thin wires from the EKG onto them. “You’re all set,” he told him.

“Thanks,” Cas whispered. Dean was still holding onto him, hands cupping his jaw. When they were alone again, Cas closed his eyes.

“Maybe you should lay back.”

“I don’t want to sleep.” Cas opened his eyes again. Dean was frowning. “I feel horrible.”

“Maybe sleeping isn’t a bad idea,” Dean suggested.

Cas moved his face from Dean’s hands. His head felt very heavy without the support. “I keep thinking I’m not going to wake up,” Cas admitted.

“Don’t talk like that.”

“I thought you wanted me to stop hiding things?” Cas muttered. Dean didn’t reply to that. Cas lay down, like a good dog. “Sometimes I don’t want to wake up.”

“Cas…” Dean begged.

“Oh, save it,” Cas sighed. “I’m so bored of pity.”

“Last night was so amazing.”

“Right up until I collapsed,” Cas pointed out.

Dean shook his head. “You did all that in spite of all of this.”

Cas turned his head. Dean wasn’t looking at him. He was staring at something over on the other side of the room. Cas couldn’t be bothered to turn and find out what it was. “You know I’m in love with you?”

“What?”

“I’m in love with you,” Cas said again.

Dean turned. He looked the way Cas imagined people would look if they were about to burn down a building. “I am so in love with you that it feels like it’s going to kill me,” Dean muttered.

“Huh,” Cas mused. He closed his eyes. “I hate this.”

“I know you do.”

“I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to feel this shit all the time. I can’t do it.”

“You’re going to get better. You’re going to be alright,” Dean said desperately.

“That’s why you brought Jimmy?” Cas asked brokenly. “To save me?”

“He’s a perfect match.”

“For a kidney, too?”

Dean was quiet.

“You not told him about that one yet?” Cas asked bitterly.

Dean took a deep breath. “He said he’d do anything he could to help.”

Cas opened his eyes again, staring at the blank white wall. “Do you know what my parents did to him?” Dean said nothing. Cas glanced at him. From his tortured expression, he deduced the answer was yes. “They just tossed him aside like a piece of trash.”

“It’s awful.”

“Yeah, it is.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“When I saw the place he’d been living, heard the shit he’d had to deal with just because my parents chose me…” Cas screwed up his face. “You can’t imagine what that was like. I’ve never felt so… so disgusting and ashamed to exist. To have even breathed. I felt like I didn’t deserve to live, knowing what he’d gone through because I was the one the doctors tore out of our mother’s abdomen first.”

“It’s not your fault,” Dean repeated.

“It doesn’t matter. I’m still guilty.”

“Oh, Cas.” Dean sounded on the verge of tears. Cas didn’t want to look at him to check.

Cas took a deep breath. “I can’t take anything else from him.”

“Cas, don’t be like that.”

“Like what?”

“Don’t condemn yourself to death.”

“It’s no more than I deserve.”

“Oh, shut up,” Dean growled. He appeared out of nowhere right in the middle of Cas’ vision, and kissed him hard and angry. Cas fought for a moment, then gave in and just lay there, a corpse beneath him. “Cas,” Dean muttered, nipping at his lips. “ _Cas_.”

Cas imagined himself leaving his body. He imagined floating away on the clouds. He imagined standing in front of thousands of people, all singing his words back to him. He imagined standing against a wall, the guy he’d been crushing on since high school looming over him, every bit as gorgeous as he’d been in the pictures. He ended up on the couch in his own living room, with Dean fast asleep against his chest. How beautiful he’d looked in the winter sun. How perfect everything had felt in that moment.

“Don’t leave me,” Dean whimpered against Cas’ mouth.

Cas kissed him back. “I’m trying. I promise I’m trying.”


	20. Seeing Double

Cas should have seen it coming.

He knew Dean had been hiding something from him. He wasn’t exactly difficult to read. If he’d been paying attention, he would probably have worked out what it was fairly easily. But he hadn’t been paying attention. He’d been running himself into the ground, thoughtless and blind. So absorbed in his own little head that he forgot the rest of the world was turning around him.

Of course Gabe would have called Jimmy. Of course Jimmy was a match. He should have been able to piece it together if he’d just given the people around him a little bit more consideration. That didn’t seem like something he was good at. Every time he tried to help someone, he ended up making them worse off. Dean, Gabe, Jimmy, his mother. He did try. It just always went wrong.

Dean was at work. Cas told him to go home afterward just so he’d actually spent time out of the hospital and its vehicles, but he wasn’t sure he would. Dean was too good to give himself a moment’s rest from the hell Cas was inflicting upon him. It must be awful for Dean, Cas thought. In their short time together, it seemed that the only facts about Cas that had been firmly established had been ‘found out’. The list of Cas’ apparently badly concealed lies was growing. He wondered what that said about him.

He was somewhere on the edge of consciousness and he really wished he could just tip over the edge and into sleep. He didn’t want to be thinking about anything, especially not all of the reasons he had for Dean to hate him. He must have been showing up purely out of pity by this point. Cas could only envision it getting worse.

The noble thing for him to do would be to leave him, but if there was one thing Cas could confidently say it was that he was not a noble man. He was selfish. And a liar. He could only hold on to the painfully twisted hope that Dean would be the one to leave him. At least that way he’d be gone before things got really messy.

Things always did seem to end in tatters. His school life, his relationship with his parents, every one night stand he’d ever had, and whatever the fuck he’d had going on with Balthazar. And Jimmy, of course. Always Jimmy. Trying to participate there had been a big mistake. Those three nights he spent lying on battered couch cushions on the floor of the hovel Jimmy had been living in at the time had been horrendous. They drank themselves into oblivion, mirrored messes with matching laughs. Jimmy didn’t blame Cas. It was their parents. Cas couldn’t turn his back on them, though. He was a coward. Such a coward.

His father had said that a lot in the hospital after Gabe had broken down Cas’ bedroom door and found him blue with a razor blade still stuck in his right arm. It was the coward’s way, he’d said, over and over. _You’re such a coward, Castiel. I am ashamed to have raised you, turning your back on us like that. Do you know what we sacrificed to give you the life you’ve had? Do you have any idea how privileged you’ve been?_

Cas just wanted to sleep. He wanted the world to peel away and leave him alone for a while. He remembered being a kid, sitting in the bottom of his closet, reading by the light that shone through the slats. He hadn’t been hiding because he was afraid, he was hiding because he didn’t want to participate. Other endeavours that sought to alleviate forced participation in the outside world had been a lot messier. The drinking; the cocaine; the mindless sex; the suicide attempt. He wanted to disengage.

Nobody would let him.

“Cas?”

Jimmy was sitting in the armchair right next to his bed. It was a spot usually occupied by Dean. Blinking, Cas inclined his head towards his once-doppelganger. Jimmy was wearing a battered leather jacket, so worn it must have felt silky when you touched it. There was a splatter of paint badly cleaned from the front of it.

When Cas had gone to find him, they’d talked about finding their genetic mother. Jimmy was an artist, and Cas loved music. It was before he’d started the band.  They wondered if their mother was an arty type, or maybe some repressed accountant with a secret bohemian streak. The conversation had not stayed light for long.

Jimmy cleared his throat. “Hey. I, uh. I came to talk to you.”

Cas smiled. “Evidently.”

Jimmy gulped audibly. He moved with a twitchy nervous energy that Cas remembered from before fatigue had sapped it from his limbs. “I saw that spread in the Rolling Stone,” Jimmy said.

Cas blinked. Was he really attempting a social call? “Yeah.”

“Your, uh. Your tattoos,” Jimmy continued. He averted his gaze. “They’re amazing.”

“Yeah,” Cas agreed. “The artist who drew the originals was really talented.”

“Thanks.” Jimmy dipped his head. Silence stewed for a moment. “You never wrote me.”

“You told me not to.”

“I know, but.” Jimmy shrugged.

“You think I should have,” Cas concluded.

“I don’t know if I’d have replied.”

Cas nodded. He wasn’t sure if he’d have been able to write. “Things were dark, for a while. After I got back from seeing you.”

“They seemed pretty dark already.”

Cas laughed dryly, without humour. “It wasn’t so bad. I was just arguing with mom and dad. I felt so betrayed…” he trailed off. It felt like an insult, complaining to him. This, the man whose life he stole.

“I spoke to them, you know.”

“You did?”

“Wanted to know what I’ve been doing, how I’ve been living. They’re suddenly interested now golden boy needs some plumbing.”

“Plumbing?” Cas asked, frowning.

Jimmy nodded in the direction of the dialysis machine.

“Oh.”

“At least they seemed a little remorseful this time. Tried to give me money again though.”

“You turned them down?”

Jimmy shrugged. “I’m doing alright for myself.”

Cas frowned. “Really?”

Jimmy smirked. “Don’t act so surprised. I wasn’t a _total_ fuck up.”

Cas smiled. “Still painting?”

Jimmy sighed. “Been selling some work to private dealers, that kind of thing. Not gone big time like you, though. Looks like you really did get all the luck.”

“I don’t think luck’s good for you.”

Jimmy’s eyes flicked around at the medical paraphernalia surrounding Cas’ bed. Various monitors and screens, the dialysis machine, the oxygen tank, the bag off piss. Cas felt like he was standing naked in front of him, with all his weaknesses being declared in loudspeakers throughout the room.

“I didn’t ask for you to come,” Cas whispered.

Cas shimmied up the bed so he was propped up, half-sitting against the cushions. Jimmy was looking at him with narrowed eyes.

Jimmy took a deep breath. “I was really freaked when Gabe told me you were sick.”

“Why?”

Jimmy shrugged. “Same DNA and everything. I thought I’d be fucked, too.”

Cas pursed his lips. “No. Just me.” It was quiet for a while but for the bleeps and whirs of the machines.

“They’re saying a month from now,” Jimmy said eventually.

“What?”

“That’s when they’re taking my kidney.”

Cas’ heart thumped. He shook his head. “I don’t want it.”

“What?

Cas drew a sharp breath. “I can’t take it from you. I don’t want it.”

“Cas, don’t be a-”

“A what?” Cas spat. “A selfish prick? Like taking your kidney wouldn’t make me irredeemable.”

“Irredeemable?” Jimmy repeated with a scoff. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“How much have you lost already because of me?”

Jimmy rolled his eyes. “Because of you? Nothing.”

“You should have had this whole, great life. You should have gone to good schools and - “

“Yeah, seems to have done you a world of good,” Jimmy sniggered.

“Exactly! I don’t deserve _any_ of this shit. I’m an ungrateful, selfish prick. Don’t waste a kidney on _me_. It might not even save me. I don’t want to fizz out in here, stitched and stuck until there’s nothing of me left. All you’re going to do is prolong the misery I’m putting everyone through. It’s better if it’s over sooner, so it’ll make less of a mess.”

“Cas?” The door was cracked open, and Dean was standing in the gap. He looked pale.

Jimmy stood up and turned.

“Dean,” Cas called weakly.

Dean shook his head. “I’m going out to smoke.”

“No!” Cas protested, but it only came out as a squeak. “Don’t go.”

Jimmy, standing between Cas and the now-closed door, looked stricken. “I’ll go after him.”

“I don’t want him to be upset,” Cas said uselessly.

Jimmy shook his head. “I’ll go – I’ll talk to him.”

Cas nodded. “Please.” He shrank against his pillows.

Dean was marching down the corridor, trying to ignore the way everything seemed to be very slightly spinning.

“Dean, wait!”

That voice made Dean cringe. Jimmy grabbed his upper arm and in his forceful pace he was whirled around to face him. God, he was beautiful. His hair was shorter than Cas’ had been, and he had a little white scar flicking down on one of the edges of the cupid’s bow of his lips, but that was all, really. They were _just_ alike. It made Dean want to scream.

“He’s tired, he just needs to rest.” Jimmy’s eyes were taut with desperation. Dean tore his arm out of his grip. “He’ll come round. I don’t think he wants to die.”

“Don’t you understand?” Dean’s voice was a lot louder than he intended it to be. “Don’t you get why he wears all of those stupid bracelets?”

Jimmy blinked. His eyes were so completely Cas’ eyes, all wide and blue and glittering, but hardly bloodshot at all, not like Cas’ always seemed to be. Dean’s mouth tasted all sour, looking at him.

“He tried to kill himself,” Dean continued, in a hushed whisper. “He… he’s volatile. He can’t think straight. He’s all messed up in the head.”

“Whoa, whoa,” Jimmy raised his hands in surrender. “Slow down.”

“Slow down?” Dean hissed. He turned on his heel and started marching away again. He didn’t stop until he was all the way outside. He fumbled around in his coat for his smoke and stuck one in his mouth, struggling to get it lit for a moment in the tearing wind.

“Got a light?” Jimmy asked.

The words stabbed through Dean’s gut. He passed Jimmy his lighter without a word.

“Health hazards humour,” Jimmy muttered, handing the lighter back. Dean peered around at him. He had his hands shoved into his pockets, cigarette hanging out the side of his mouth. He was looking up at the sky. The wind ruffled his short dark hair. He was devastating.

“You think I should go back in there?” Dean wondered aloud.

Jimmy shrugged. “Maybe you should let it breathe.”

Dean nodded, eying Jimmy suspiciously. “Maybe.”

“I should probably go back to my hotel,” Jimmy announced.

“You walking?”

“Nah, I’ll get a cab.”

Dean was torn for a moment. “Don’t be stupid. I can give you a ride.”

Jimmy hesitated, swaying on his heels. “You sure? I don’t want to impose.”

Dean shrugged. “I…” he cleared his throat. “I’ll give you a ride,” he concluded with a nod. Jimmy smiled, and didn’t protest.

“Pretty chassis,” Jimmy murmured as Dean unlocked the impala. “But the guts of a tractor.”

Dean scoffed. “Just because she takes diesel doesn’t make her a hick.”

“She?” Jimmy repeated, smirking.

“This car’s my baby. Built her up from the scrappy run-around my dad had locked in his shed,” Dean explained.

“I’m not overly fond of muscle cars.”

Dean glared. “Shot gun shuts his cake hole.”

Jimmy smirked. “Yes sir.”

“Zip!” Dean instructed.

“You know, you’re not very commanding.”

Dean spluttered out a laugh. “No?”

Jimmy’s eyes glittered as he answered. “No.”

Dean gulped and turned his eyes back to the road. They were silent the rest of the way to the hotel.

“Thanks for the ride,” Jimmy said, unbuckling his seat belt.

“It’s the least I can do.”

“I’m just doing what decent human beings do.”

Dean sighed and closed his eyes. It was more than that. What Jimmy was doing was momentous. Cas would be alive on Jimmy’s goodwill as much as Dr Moore’s skills as a doctor. How many people could really, truly say they’d saved someone’s life not out of necessity of the moment or because it was their job, but because they were willing to give a physical part of themselves to allow that other person to go on living?

“Dean, are you alright?” Jimmy asked after a moment of quiet had elapsed.

Dean took a deep breath. “Yeah, yeah. I’m fine.”

Jimmy pursed his lips, obviously not convinced. “Where you going, when you’ve got rid of me?”

“Oh, just. Home.” Dean sighed.

“Just you?” Jimmy asked, tilting his head to the side ever so minutely.

“Yeah. Just me.”

Jimmy frowned. “You think it’s a good idea to be alone?”

“I’m fine,” Dean insisted. “It’s been a long day. I should go get some sleep.”

Jimmy nodded. “Look. There’s a bar in the hotel. You can come in and grab a drink with me, so you’re not on your own for a while.”

Dean smiled uncertainly. “Do I look like I’m cracking?”

Jimmy laughed, free and easy. “Dean, sweetheart, you look well and truly cracked.”

Dean laughed too. “Alright. I’ll come in for a drink. But I’m definitely paying.”

Jimmy grinned. “Good job; I’m broke.”

The hotel bar was characterless and overpriced, but when they got there, they discovered Cas’ parents had opened Jimmy a tab with no spending limit on it. With mutual smirks, they ordered fancy cocktails. Jimmy told Dean about a little club in Boston that he swore made the best cocktails on earth. “Honestly, I swear their Double Orgasm tastes like the feeling of the best sex you’ve had in your life.”

Dean laughed. “How can something taste like a feeling?”

Jimmy shrugged. “I don’t know. How do people seem like colours?”

“Man, you’re crazy.”

Jimmy grinned. “It’s always a possibility. I am an artist.”

“They do say creative genius is only a step away from madness.”

“Who’s ‘they’?”

“Eh, who cares? Bert and Ernie.”

Jimmy rolled his eyes. “What a clichéd response.”

“Hmph. Give me a little credit; least I didn’t say ‘your mom’.”

Jimmy gave Dean an emphatic once over. “Yeah, you do seem the type.”

“There’s a type that says ‘your mom’?”

Jimmy nodded adamantly. They were on their fourth cocktails by this point. “Oh, yeah. Usually the same type that plays college football and joins fraternities.”

Dean snorted. “Oh, Christ. I’m hurt. I really am.”

“Oh, come on. You’re a total jock boy, aren’t you? Bet all the girls went nuts when you had your big-gay-freak-out.”

Dean barked with laughter. “Oh, fuck! Maybe if it had just been my old man around I’d have had time for being in the closet, but my mother can see right through me. Calls me her open book. And I’m not gay.”

Jimmy raised an eyebrow. “Then what are you doing fucking my brother?”

“I’m _bisexual_ ,” Dean proclaimed with a smooth gesticulation that almost knocked all of the glasses lined on the bar onto the floor. “And usually he’s the one doing the fucking.”

Jimmy raised his eyebrows and swallowed the last of his drink in one. From there, things started to get a little hazy. They left the hotel, went down the high street. Dean was holding onto the edge of the table so he didn’t fall off his chair. Jimmy was telling him about art, about painting. Dean couldn’t stop laughing. Jimmy couldn’t stop laughing either.

They were staggering down a street and they stopped and Jimmy threw up in the gutter and Dean said how much that reminded him of Cas, and Jimmy looked a little hurt, but he didn’t pull him up on it. They were slamming back shots and the music was too loud. There were bodies pressed together, the smell of alcohol burning the inside of Dean’s nose, underpinned by the smell of human beings dancing hard and fast.

Dean was slumped over the sinks in the men’s toilets, staring at his own reflection. His face had a sheen of sweat and his shirt was sticking to him. His hair was mussed like there had been hands running through it. Everything was turning around him and he couldn’t make it stand still. He spat in the sink and blinked slowly at himself.

“Awh, fuck,” Dean grumbled. “I need to go to sleep, I need to get to bed.”

Dean was dancing. He didn't know many of the songs but the bass shot through him and made his heart beat in time. The air tasted like other people's lungs. The Seraphims came on, and Dean's body was on fire. He was jumping, moving, breathing it in. Cas was everywhere and everything. Dean felt hands on his hips and turned, and Cas was there with him, grinding against his body. He was scalding under Dean's hands. With every touch he gasped. Dean was hungry for it. Oh, it had been so long. So long. Dean was starved.

Eager fingers scrabbled at his belt, teeth bit at his collar bone. Dean lay back and screamed with it, so desperate and needy and wrecked. He wanted to be fucked into oblivion. He wanted to be fucked until nothing meant anything anymore and Cas seemed happy to oblige, although suddenly he didn't seem so much like Cas. He moved with less anger and more certainty. He was afraid to make marks that would last.

Cas tossed back his head, exposing his pale throat. Wasn't he thinner, before? 

 _Oh god,_ Dean marvelled. _I’m wasted._

Cas’ nails on his chest, biting into his skin. Dean’s hands tangled into his hair, pulling him in for a kiss, rough and bitter, before he collapsed onto him. Dean rolled over, feeling strangely hollowed out, and his memory was gone.

It was a dream. It had to be a dream. Dean staggered out of bed. The on suite was not where it should have been and he barely made it to the toilet before he was sick. He clung to the edge of the bowl, and drifted back to sleep.


	21. How He Goes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the comments on the last chapter! All I can say is... brace yo' selves.

Dean was the most uncomfortable he’d ever been in his life. He was hungover to hell, lying on a hard floor, half on tiles and half on some kind of bath mat, and he was completely naked. The room smelled of puke and the soapy taste in Dean’s mouth suggested he was the reason why.

He sat up gingerly, hand firmly holding the side of his head. He didn’t know whose bathroom he was in. He wasn’t at home, and it wasn’t Cas’ place. Where the hell was he?

He pulled himself to his feet, his stomach lurching and sloshing as he did so. He wasn’t completely naked after all; he was still wearing his left sock. He looked waxy in his reflection. His hair was suck in messy peaks. There was strawberry shaped bruise on his collarbone, which he pressed. It didn’t hurt. Leaning closer to the glass and frowning, Dean realised that it was a hickey. Why did he have… a hickey…?

Oh. The night before came rushing back to him. Oh, _fuck._

He gripped the edges of the sink and threw up right into the plug hole. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He couldn’t have actually... He didn’t... He shook his head and his ears rang. Maybe it wasn’t a hickey. Maybe it was some kind of rash. Yeah. It could be a bug bite or something, right? He scrubbed at it like it might go away. It didn’t.

The door back through to whoever’s bedroom this was stood ajar. Dean took a deep breath. He needed to get out of there, fast. He pressed his hand flat on the wood and it swung open.

The exit was right across the room. A trail of clothes led from it to a large four poster bed. The curtains were still tied back, blankets had been cast on the floor. In the bright sun pouring through the windows, Dean blinked furiously to try and get his eyes to adjust. A pair of slender legs, spread eagled, the curve of his ass. The smooth expanse of unmarked skin across his back.

His head was turned towards Dean, so there could be no mistaking him for someone else. Not now, at least. Dean could not kid himself that this had been some random stranger. The messy dark hair was a dead ringer. Jimmy. Why did have to be Jimmy?

“Fuck,” Dean spat, covering his face with his hands.

Jimmy stirred, drawing a long, sudden breath. “Hmm?” he asked lazily. Dean heard the sheets rustle as he sat up. “Oh,” Jimmy said. Dean dropped his hands, forcing himself to face him. Jimmy looked agonised, the same expression Dean had seen on Cas’ face whenever he thought he’d done something wrong.

Dean shook his head and scanned the trailing clothes. He spotted his jeans and pulled them on without bothering to try and find his underwear. His phone clattered out of his pocket and onto the ground. The lock screen was a picture of Cas wrapped in blankets, eyes closed with laughter, hands a blur as he tried to stop Dean from taking the photograph. Dean thought he might throw up again.

“I’m sorry.”

“Shut up,” Dean hissed. “Don’t fucking speak to me.”

Jimmy didn’t argue. He gathered the sheets over himself and watched Dean from the bed, silent. He looked gaunt. Dean fastened his jeans and yanked on the rest of his clothes and stormed out of the room. Jimmy called something after him, but Dean didn’t bother trying to work out what it was.

He felt out of sorts. He’d done walks of shame before, but none had been as agonising as that. The street with Jimmy’s hotel on it was one he’d ridden his bike down as a kid, Jo trailing behind him, feeling like the king of the world. The grocery store where he liked to buy pie seemed to glare at him in the late morning sun. The florist’s where he bought the corsage for his date at senior prom tutted and rolled its eyes. The coffee shop where he’d taken Cas so many times stood on the corner like a quiet, glass-fronted prison guard, a look in its window-eyes that said ‘I’m not angry, I’m just disappointed’.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, but when he saw it was Cas calling, he couldn’t bring himself to answer. He let it ring off, his stomach churning. When he got home his apartment seemed to want to rub it in. Cas’ jacket was over the back of one of the chairs in the kitchen, a pair of his socks balled on the floor in the living room. In the bedroom one of the sleeves of his tartan pyjamas had managed to worm its way out from under the pillows.

Dean lay face down on the bed, clutching Cas’ pillow to himself, breathing in the vestiges of smell of him. Oh, _Cas_. What had Dean done? It was bad enough to bring Jimmy in the first place. He kept thinking of the expression on his face when he’d realised Dean was in on it. Complete betrayal. How could that compare to this? This subterfuge cemented the lies that Dean had already told.

His phone buzzed again. Still Cas. Dean couldn’t bear to answer. This time he couldn’t even stand to let it ring out and just turned his phone off. He wanted to crawl out of his skin and be anyone else. He pressed his eyes shut. He was tired but he didn’t know if he could sleep. It didn’t matter, really. Anything was better than having to deal with the mess he’d made of this. Of Cas. Of _everything_.

He must have fallen asleep, though, because somebody rang his doorbell and he jolted awake. Wincing, he staggered upright and through the apartment. He yanked the door open. Gabe was standing there, rain-damp and dishevelled. Dean considered slamming the door in his face.

“What?”

“Where the hell have you been?” he asked, frowning.

Dean peered over his shoulder.

“You stink like beer,” Gabe noted, wrinkling his nose. “They let Cas out this morning. He’s at home. He’s been trying to call you all day.”

Guilt churned Dean’s stomach. “Oh.”

“Oh?” Gabe repeated.

Dean looked at the floor.

“What’s your problem?” Gabe snapped. “Look, he… he’s not doing great.”

“What do you mean?”

“After you fucked off last night, he tried to refuse treatment.” Gabe shuddered. “Mom and dad roped in the lawyers.”

“They what?”

Gabe sighed. “Lawyers. They’ve stripped him of medical autonomy.”

Dean’s slowed down, guilt-ridden, hungover brain could not process that for a moment. When he did, he still couldn’t make sense of it. “Fuck.”

“He thinks you’re mad at him.”

Dean frowned. “What?”

“You just stormed off. He thinks you hate him.”

“Hate him?” Dean repeated, appalled.

“You know what he’s like,” Gabe muttered dismissively. He started talking about something else but it didn’t make any sense to Dean. It was just noise. Gabe realised after a moment that Dean wasn’t listening and lapsed into silence. “What’s with you?”

“I… fucked up,” Dean mumbled. He squeezed his eyes shut.

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” Gabe demanded. “Come on, Cas is completely falling apart. He needs you.”

Dean was rooted to the spot.

“Dean?” Gabe stopped three feet from the top of the stairs. Dean remembered looking down the shaft and seeing Cas, incapable of climbing any higher on his own. He remembered cradling him in his arms, rushing down the stairs as fast as he could manage, blood splattering and streaming, Cas spluttering that he didn’t want to ruin the upholstery in Dean’s car. Who could think about that when they were bleeding to death? Only Cas, surely.

He thought of Cas looking up at him from the floor, wide-eyed and cross-legged. Had he ever said he loved him?

“Earth to Dean?”

Dean blinked. “I can’t.”

Gabe narrowed his eyes. “You can’t what?” he asked, shaking his head.

“I… I cheated,” Dean managed to say before his throat sealed shut.

Gabe stared at him, blank faced. “You cheated?” Saying it aloud seemed to make him understand. “You cheated on Cas.”

Dean said nothing. He looked at the ground again.

“You great big bag of dicks. You just went off and fucked somebody because he’s out of commission? Is that what he is to you?”

“No!” Dean yelled, much louder than he should have.

Gabe’s face was bright red with fury. “Really? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you got bored waiting around for him to get better.”

“I would never have done it if I’d not. If I hadn’t got so drunk, I-”

“Oh, so you were drunk, too? Out for a wild night on the town whilst Cas is lying in hospital, thinking you’re abandoning him because he doesn’t want to suffer any more? And our fucking.” Gabe stopped abruptly, his hands balled into fists, panting. “Our _fucking dick fuck parents_ stomp in and _crush him into shit_ and you’re out there _fucking someone else?_ ”

“Gabe, you don’t understand!”

“Really? I think I’ve got it pretty straight,” Gabe spat.

“I thought it was him!” Dean shouted desperately.

Gabe narrowed his eyes. “What?”

“I. I thought it was him.” Dean’s voice was thick with emotion. He covered his face with his hands. “I was wasted, we were dancing and I… I thought it was him.”

The world seemed to hold it’s breath. You could have heard a pin drop.

“Dean.”

“No.”

“How could you think it was him,” the flatness of Gabe’s tone suggested he already knew.

“Don’t,” Dean pleaded.

“I just can’t figure out how you’d confuse someone with the guy you’ve been dating for months, you know. Doesn’t seem to make all that much sense.” Gabe’s voice was shaking.

“Please, Gabe.”

“Gabriel.” Gabe spat. “Tell me, Dean. How does one confuse their boyfriend with someone else?”

“I’m sorry,” Dean whimpered.

“Unless that person looked exactly like them?”

“Gabriel, I didn’t mean-”

“You didn’t mean what? To fuck Jimmy? To fuck Cas’ twin brother, who he’s not spoken to for six years because he’s so cut up about what happened to him, who’s supposed to be donating him a kidney he doesn’t want? Was it an accident? Did you just accidentally slip your dick into him?”

“Stop it!”

“No!” Gabe shrieked. “It’ll kill him.”

“I know.”

“You don’t have any idea,” Gabe muttered dangerously.

“What can I do? How can I fix this?”

Gabe shook his head. “You can’t.”

Dean sobbed into his palms. “You got to help me fix this.”

“You can’t see him.”

“What?”

“You can’t see him,” Gabe said again, more firmly.

“But. I love him.”

Gabe shrugged. “Don’t you think he’s got enough shit in his life without you?”

Dean could not argue against that. He slumped against the wall. “Gabe. Don’t.”

“I’m right, though. He won’t take this well.”

Dean could not argue with that. It was not something that even the most emotionally balanced person could be expected to take lightly, even with nothing else appallingly awful going on in their life. Dean had fucked up _everything._

Gabe took a deep breath. “I… I’ll tell him you had to go see Sam. Some kind of family crisis.”

Dean grimaced. “And then?”

Gabe shrugged. “You stay the fuck out of his life, and he never has to know.”

Dean hung his head. “What if… what if he…”

“What if he dies?”

The words stabbed Dean right in the guts. “And I don’t know?”

Gabe took a deep breath. “I don’t fucking owe you anything, but for what it’s worth, I think my brother’s in love with you.”

Dean could feel what was left of his resolve crumbling. “I just want to know if he’s alright.”

“He’s not,” Gabe snapped. Dean cringed. Gabe sighed. “If something happens to him I’ll let you know.”

It wasn’t enough, but Dean felt relief washing over him in waves. “Thank you,” he whispered. It was not nearly enough.

He couldn’t unpick the strands of the conversation. He couldn’t unravel the events of the night before. It was all one horrific blur. He didn’t want to think about it anymore. He thought of Cas, smiling at him. He thought of him standing on that stage, huge and powerful.

He tried to walk back through the last through months. Meeting Cas, getting to know him, falling in love. Cas was the kind of person that deserved a better world to live in. His parents, his brother, his myeloma. Dean. None of it was fair. He shone light wherever he went. Even when he was falling apart, he wanted to shelter people from the fallout, no matter what that meant for him. He would have rather gone through chemotherapy alone than risk seeing the people he loved upset.

Dean was just scraping by. He wasn’t a horrible person (or at least he hadn’t been until now). He’d managed with his drunken father and his long-suffering mom, but he never encouraged her to put her foot down. He’d coped with helping Sam through bad spates of bullying and held his hand after their mom wasn’t there to do it anymore. He’d stayed afloat when he knew his boyfriend had cancer. He held down his job. He eventually managed to become a paramedic. He was mediocrity personified. How could a person like Cas ever even look at a person like him?

After Gabe was gone, Dean walked back into his apartment. All the little pieces of Cas that littered the place seemed to be burning. They were all screaming accusations. _Cheat. Liar. Coward._ He went to his bedroom, grabbing his hold all from underneath the bed. He started shoving his clothes into it but he got pulled up short when he found the t-shirt he’d borrowed from Cas the night that they met.

Dean held it, hands shaking, tears dripping off the end of his nose and onto the carpet.

He got to his feet and ran out of the apartment, straight down the stairs. He hardly had any of his belongings but he didn’t car. He got into the Impala and put his foot down. He needed to go. He needed to put as much distance between him and Cas as possible, or he was going to go and plead him to take him back. He could barely see when he got out onto the interstate. It was like there was heavy rain pelting against the windscreen, but the sky was almost completely clear.

He didn’t know where he was going. He didn’t particularly care. Even though he was leaving his hometown behind with no intention of going back, it didn’t feel like he was moving on. It felt like he was regressing.

 

* * *

 

 

Cas stretched on the couch when he heard the front door open, instinctively making a space beside him for Dean to sit. When Gabe came in, though, he was alone. Cas frowned.

“Where’s Dean?”

Gabe shrugged. “There’s been some kind of family crisis, he’s had to head over to fetch his brother.”

“A crisis?” Cas repeated, sitting up.

“I don’t know. I just saw his neighbour,” Gabe shrugged. He had a large paper bag from the super market which he set on the table between them. “I brought cake.”

“I’m not hungry,” Cas answered smoothly. His mind churned over what Gabe had said to him. He scrutinised his brother. He seemed tense and unhappy, but he’d been like that before he left, too. Everything _was_ tense and unhappy.

“Come on, Cassie,” Gabe encouraged quietly. “You got to eat something. Might as well be cake.” He offered him a pre-cut slice in a plastic container.

Cas took it gingerly. “He’s gone, hasn’t he,” Cas said quietly.

Gabe froze mid chew. Cas stared at him. Gabe didn’t even blink for almost a whole minute. “I’m sorry, kiddo.”

Cas drew a sharp breath and dropped his box of cake onto the floor. It would be a lie for him to say he’d not expected it. Hadn’t he been waiting for this to happen from the moment that Dean found out?

Gabe’s arms around him made him realise how hard he was shaking. “I’m so sorry, Cassie,” Gabe whispered. Cas squeezed his eyes shut and clung onto the back of Gabe’s shirt. He kept expecting Gabe to take it back. He kept waiting for Dean to burst into the room and yell _surprise!_

It didn’t happen. Cas tried to breathe evenly but he couldn’t. He tried to tap into that old mantra, the one that had kept him going all this time. It wasn’t happening. Nothing had been happening for months. That was it. That was the trick. Cas pulled out of the hug and got to his feet, stumbling slightly. When he got to the stairs he sank back down again.

He could pretend. He could do it.

“Cas?”

He was still sitting at the bottom of the stairs the hallway. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been there, but it was dark outside. Gabe was kneeling in front of him, one hand on each of Cas’ shoulders. “You still in there?” he asked, with an encouraging smile.

Cas tried to match it with his own. “Fine,” he promised.

When he closed his eyes, he was screaming.


	22. Back from the Dead

_SUMMER_

_FALL_

_WINTER_

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_SPRING_

_SUMMER_

_FALL_

_WINTER_

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_SPRING_

_SUMMER_

_FALL_

_WINTER_

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_SPRING_

_SUMMER_

_FALL_

_WINTER_

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_SPRING_

_SUMMER_

_FALL_

_WINTER_

_*_

_SPRING_

_SUMMER_

_FALL_

**WINTER**

**(Six Years Later)**

Dean was fumbling with his tie in the bathroom. His hands were all sweaty and kept slipping on the silk every time he tried to loosen the knot. He took a swig out of the hipflask he had hidden inside his jacket. One of the stalls behind him creaked open and he jumped, plunging his hands back into the sink again and smiling widely whilst he swilled his fingers around in soapy water. The guy who emerged gave him serious side eye and slunk out of the room, briefly letting the party outside drift in, much to Dean’s displeasure.

“Didn’t even wash his hands,” he muttered.

He wasn’t hiding. He was just trying to fix his hair and sort out his tie, and that was all. He knew that Sammy would say he was hiding the moment he walked in and –

“Dean, what are you hiding in here for?”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Right on cue.”

“What?” Sam inspected his own impeccable suit in his reflection and tucked a loose strand of hair behind his ear. “Maybe you’d actually have fun if you just. You know.” Sam shrugged.

“If I just what?” Dean asked.

“Loosen up a little?”

Dean laughed with bitter nerves. “You know, Sam, if you weren’t my brother I’d ram my fist right into your -”

The door opened again, and an elderly gentleman walked in and went straight to the urinals. Sam and Dean maintained eye contact, grimacing at the sound of pee hitting ceramic.

“You just come in here to check your hair?” Dean asked, sniggering.

“You come in here just to mess up your tie?” Sam countered. Dean felt himself flush and tugged on the knot again. Sam rolled his eyes and adjusted it for him, despite Dean’s continuously squawked protests. “I know you think these benefits are bullshit but it’s going to look really good for the hospital to have people who work hands on here.”

Dean snorted. “You’d think they’d have got used to the fancy-schmancy lawyers by now.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “Come on Dean, play ball.”

Dean sighed. “Alright. Fine. Lead me out like a lamb to slaughter.”

Sam beamed and held open the door for him. Dean did a quick scan of the room to make sure nobody saw that. People had a tendency to think that he and Sam were dating, which was an absolutely horrifying prospect when you were trying to pull. Not that the pickings in the room were that fruitful. Oh, they were rich though. Old ladies dripping in diamonds. Men with canes that might have been made from the femurs of kings. The whole place dripped in money. Even Sam. Dean would be trying to get the stink of prosperity out of his clothes for weeks.

Anna, who was one of the doctors in A&E, was being cornered by a man about seventy four times her age next to a bowl of punch that might have been worth more than Dean made in a year. He made a beeline to her, slinking an arm around her waist. “Anna! I was wondering where you’d got to!” he announced delightedly.

“You said your name as Steele…?” the old man protested as Dean swept her away.

“I was handling it!” Anna protested, but she was giggling.

Dean shrugged. “I just like watching their expressions fall when a devilishly handsome fiend like me swoops in.”

“Ugh, that’s such an act,” she snorted. “Is there anything about you that isn’t fake?”

“My boobs.” Dean shrugged and Anna laughed.

“Oh, god. Seriously, though. Isn’t this just awful?” she asked miserably. “They spent more on this party than they spend on new beds in my unit every year.”

Dean nodded. “It’s gross.”

“Nice wine though,” she consoled with a sigh, plucking two glasses off a tray that was being carried by a passing waiter. She handed one of them to Dean and he made a show of smelling it and taking a delicate sip.

“Mm, tastes like money and the tears of children.”

“I find it hard to tell the two apart,” Anna said, arching her eyebrows.

“See, it’s not so bad, is it?” Sam asked, bounding up with all the ease and grace of a puppy chasing a stick.

“Not so much now your brother’s decided to emerge,” Anna admitted, jabbing Dean in the ribs.

Sam smiled, glittering and proud. Dean felt is own smile slip off. In the car ride over, Sam had given Dean ‘the talk’ again. From the look in his eye, it was likely Sam suspected Dean was finally taking him up on his advice and trying to _connect_. Sam always said words like that as though they bore to him a special significance. _Bond, communicate_ and _socialise_ were a few more examples. Basically, from what Dean could gather, Sam wanted him to get out more and get laid. This was not advice Dean felt capable of heeding.

“You know, I’m, uh. I’m not feeling so hot.”

Sam looked extremely disappointed. “You’re not checking out early again are you?”

Dean shrugged and tried his best to look nonchalant. “It must have been something in the vol-au-vants.”

He hugged Anna goodbye and started to slink away. He was halfway out of the door when Sam grabbed his arm. “Dean. Wait,” he said, sudden desperation in his tone.

Dean blinked at him and yanked his arm away. “What? You know I hate these things, I stayed for two whole hours.”

“I just looked at the guest’s list,” Sam thrust one of the white triangles of paper that Dean had been avoiding reading all night right under his nose.

“I can’t read it when it’s all up in my face,” Dean grumbled, snatching it from him. It was just a list of names. He didn’t recognise any of them. He was about to shove the leaflet back into Sam’s hand and go home and to bed when he spotted a little note in italics at the bottom. _And a special performance from Castiel Milton._

Dean felt the stiff paper buckling in his tightening grip.

Six years and he’d hardly heard that name, save what scraps he’d scoured from the depths of the internet and that little snippet he’d got out of Dr Moore on New Year’s Eve three years previously. He was still writing for the _Seraphims_ but he didn’t perform with them anymore. A couple of years ago there had been a rumour that he was sleeping with the star of a hit Broadway show about bee keeping but there never seemed to be any substantial proof of that. There had been one photograph released of him the entire time. Dressed head to toe in black, but for a long trench coat like he was motherfucking John Constantine, waltzing in to smite demons and save the day. _Former lead of ‘the Seraphims’ Castiel Milton seen leaving show._

“Dean?” Sam had a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “You want to go?”

Dean shook his head briskly.

“Maybe it’d be a good idea…”

“ _God Sam._ ” Dean hissed. “I don’t care if it’s a good idea.”

The smooth music that had been providing the party’s sonic backdrop suddenly receded and one of the old patrons of the hospital started to speak. Dean didn’t pay much attention to the waffle. His head was just yelling CAS, CAS, CAS and so there wasn’t much space for him to take in a speech. He did pick up them announcing Cas’ name, though. There was a smattering of applause.

Dean grabbed Sam’s sleeve. “Yes. It’s a good idea, I should leave.”

Sam nodded earnestly and made to follow Dean out of the door, which was, of course, the only exit from the room besides the fire escape. Eyes locked on the ground, Dean was marching as fast as he could, and he didn’t anyone standing at the top of the stairs, but there was someone there, obviously, because he slammed right into them and fell back onto his ass. There was a ripple of polite laughter amongst the people who’d congregated there.

A pale hand extended into Dean’s line of vision. Unthinkingly, he took it and allowed himself to be pulled up to his feet.

“Fuck,” his saviour muttered.

Dean glanced up at him, mortified, his face burning hot. He was wearing a suit that was so well-fitting that it must have been custom made. It was black with a dark grey pinstripe that Dean might have missed if he hadn’t been standing so close, and where the lapels turned out was lined with red satin. What stood out the most, though, were the Dr Marten’s sticking out the bottom of it. When Dean met his icy blue gaze, all the blood seemed to run right out of him.

Somehow, Dean’s memory had edited Cas into something less. Maybe it was all the pictures of him that were still saved on his hard-drive, where Cas’ arms were matchsticks and his eyes shone huge and globed above his hollow cheeks. Cas, sick, was the Cas that inhabited Dean’s imagination.

He did not look sick now. He was blistering.  

“Cas,” Dean said breathily.

Cas’ gaze flickered to the people standing around them. “It’s Castiel.”

Dean’s breath was stuck in his throat. Cas breezed past him, leaving behind the faint scent of pine needles and winter’s days.

 “Sam, did that just happen?”

Sam was looking at him as though he might burst into flames. “Yeah. It happened.”

Dean gulped and nodded. He took out his hip flask and took a long draught from it.

“I swear I had no idea,” Sam squeaked.

Dean shook his head. “Yeah.”

“Maybe we should go, like you wanted,” Sam was saying, but he seemed a very long way off.

Through the crowd, Dean could see the baby grand piano in the middle of the room. Cas was sitting at it, a soft white light shining. He played one note and looked expectantly at his audience, who laughed appreciatively. Smiling, eyes darting, he pressed both hands into the keys, music pouring from him as easy as breathing. The hairs on the back of Dean’s neck stood on end.

“ _The clouds pass by like foggy breathed,_

_Cold bedroom mornings._

_I try not to touch the floor with my warm, unsullied feet._

_I face the day with a smile in my mirror._

_It’s only so I don’t forget how.”_

It wasn’t anything like the stuff that he’d written when he was in _Seraphims._ It was slower, sadder. The melody was simpler but its relationship with the tune underneath it was more complicated. There were moments where the piano swelled and the melody seemed to teeter on the edge of it, and Dean was sure Cas was about to play a wrong note, but it always pulled back at the last moment, beautiful and tantalising.

When it ended, Sam patted the back of Dean’s hand. He was gripping Sam’s forearm. He hadn’t realised.

Cas stopped playing and the crowd clapped. He dipped his head, smiling shyly. “Thank you,” he said, leaning close to the microphone. He stretched his hands and placed them back on the keys, taking a breath that scattered about the room, split over speakers. The next two songs were the same. Before Dean knew what was happening, Cas was thanking the crowd again and getting to his feet. Beneficiaries engulfed him as soon as he was standing. All Dean could do was stand there, overwhelmed by the sheer fact of Cas’ presence. His voice, not played over speakers, coaxed from Dean’s well-used _Seraphims_ special edition CD. Right there.

“Maybe I should go,” Dean found himself saying. He released Sam’s arm and his own breath.

“That might be an idea,” Sam agreed.

“It’s just that he’s right there, you know?” Dean said in a whisper.

Sam smiled sadly. “I know. He looks…”

Dean turned expectantly. Gorgeous? Beautiful? Like the most attractive person Dean’s had the grace to see?

“He looks well,” Sam concluded.

Dean scoffed.

“What?”

Dean shrugged. “Not what I’d have gone for but alright.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Good job, really, otherwise you’d _never_ have had a shot.”

Dean grinned but the implicit message in Sam’s jibe had his guts writhing. When Dean had called his name, Cas had corrected him. _It’s Castiel._ He was right there. Occasionally Dean caught the tinkle of his laugh above the murmur of conversation. What if that was all he was going to say to him?

He stole a look in Cas’ direction just as Cas turned his head away. Had he been stealing a glance, too? Why didn’t he come over? Dean let out a nervous breath and tried to shake out his anxiety without much success. Part of him wanted to run over there and grab Cas by the shoulders and kiss him hard, and was convinced that Cas would kiss back and everyone else in the room would cheer and clap. The rest of him screamed that this was a terrible idea and prevented him from moving even an inch from where he’d be standing during Cas’ performance.

“Dean, I thought you’d gone home?” Anna asked, stepping right into Dean’s eye-line and blocking his view of Cas.

“I ran into someone,” he muttered, trying to lean around her as subtly as possible.

“You know people like this?” she asked, casting a sweeping glance around the room.

“Hey, my brother’s been excepted into the fold of these slippery fuckers so I’ve got to start making connections,” he explained with a sly grin. “Besides, maybe if I bang one of them everyone’ll stop assuming me and Sam are a couple.”

Anna chuckled. “Oh, I see how it is.”

Dean grinned, then felt a light touch on his shoulder. He turned, expecting to find Sam returned from his trip to the bar. Instead, it was Cas. Dean felt his body go rigid under Cas’ hand. “C-Cas,” Dean spluttered.

“Castiel,” Cas corrected again, dropping his arm down to his side. He was holding a large glass of red wine, which he took a sip of, his eyes flitting down over Dean’s body, as though he was trying to hide the fact he was checking Dean out. “Who’s your friend?”

“This is Anna, she’s a trauma surgeon.”

Cas’ brows raised. “How intense. The stress must be exhausting.”

Anna’s cheeks flushed scarlet. “Yes, well. I manage.” She shrugged lamely.

“And Dean, what do you do now?”

At ‘now’, Anna’s eyes widened. She gave Dean a look that said _you know him!?_ and Dean replied with an anxious shrug that was meant to say _I’ll talk about it later._

“I’m a paramedic.”

“Here? In Chicago?” Cas asked, frowning.

Dean nodded. “That… a problem?”

“No… no. Just curious, that’s all.” Cas smiled but it looked forced and uncomfortable. “How long have you been here?”

“Getting on five years, now,” Dean explained, nodding. Anna was slinking away. He wished she wouldn’t. “And you?”

“Year and a half,” Cas explained, distractedly. He was worrying at the hem on his sleeve. He sipped his wine and the dark liquid splashed up and stained the corner of his mouth. Dean stared at it, unable to stop himself from licking his own lips. Cas tilted his head to the side. “I’m sorry. Would you like me to leave?”

“No!” Dean said a little too loud. He cleared his throat. “No, it’s really… it’s really good to see you.”

Cas smiled, a little wider and warmer than before. “Yes. It is. You look well,” he said smoothly. His echo of Sam’s earlier words made Dean’s skin prickle.

“So do you,” Dean managed to squeeze out around the lump forming fast in his throat.

Cas’ carefully composed smile faltered a little, cracking a little wider than it should have and letting bitterness seep into the creases around his eyes. He took a deep breath. “Yes, well. You know how it is.”

“I didn’t think you did gigs anymore,” Dean admitted.

“I don’t, usually,” Cas explained, smile slipping back into safety again. “Look, I,” Cas began, then broke off. He shook his head.

“What?”

“Nothing. It’s… it’s really good to see you.” Cas dipped his head.

Dean could feel heat in his cheeks. “Yeah. Real good, Cas.”

At the sound of his name, Cas lifted his head again, lips pursed. “Maybe. Maybe we’ll run into each other again?” he suggested disjointedly.

“Yeah?” Dean was unable to stop a grin spreading across his face. Cas didn’t seem very pleased, though. “We could go for a drink or something?”

Cas closed his eyes. He shifted his weight from foot to foot. One of the beneficiaries put a hand on Cas’ arm and he jerked it away. The woman blinked and touched the pearl necklace around her throat. “Awfully sorry to interrupt, Mr Milton, but we were wondering if you’d, come through for photographs?”

“Oh, of course,” Cas spluttered, gingerly adjusting his lapels. “Sorry, Dean. Another time, maybe?” Cas offered with a shrug. Dean could only nod enthusiastically. Cas smiled again. “It really was nice seeing you,” he said, smiling, and then he walked away, like it was nothing. Like they were old colleagues who’d just bumped into one another at the store.

Dean stood staring at the door for a few moments, trying to regain some level of composure. Anna reappeared at its side. “What was _that_ about?”

Dean took her glass of wine from her and drained it in one. “Thanks,” he mumbled. Ducking his head, he turned and started on his way out of the room. When he got to the sidewalk, he gulped the cold air. The November chill bit easily through his suit. He tugged at his tie again and this time pulled it right off. He scrunched it in his hand, looking up at the sky. The underbelly of the clouds was stained orange by the streetlamps.

He looked back at the hotel behind him. The party upstairs shone with gold through the windows. The chandeliers were framed perfectly from the street by the curtains, the people beneath them looking tiny but every bit as polished. It was not the sort of place Dean would have looked for Cas. But then, he supposed, he didn’t really know him anymore, did he? _It’s Castiel._

Dean shook himself and ran a hand through his hair, walking fast in the direction of his flat. Despite the chill, there was a mugginess in the air, as though the clouds might break into a sudden monsoon. Dean could feel sweat cooling on his forehead. He was practically running. He passed two full ranks of cabs but didn’t stop. He wanted to feel the ground moving under his feet.

He stormed through the lobby of his building and up the stairs. He didn’t turn on any of the lights in his flat until he got into the bedroom. The high white walls loomed menacingly over him, the faces on his posters leering down. Johnny Cash, LED Zeppelin, and Cas.  Oh no, sorry; _Castiel._ Dean grabbed the edge of the poster and tore it down. He was not the lithe, tattooed creature cringing against the warehouse wall. Dean scrunched the paper in his hands and threw it on the ground.

He was suddenly furious. He had a strange urge to jump out of the window, but managed to hold himself back from actually doing it. There were so many things he’d been wanting to say. He wanted to know what he’d been doing for the past six years, why he’d stopped performing when he’d so obviously been in love with it.

All the lies twisted around Dean’s head. _Oh no, I’m totally over him now, but you can’t deny the music is just gorgeous, you know?_ Bringing him up at every twist and turn. _You wouldn’t believe this guy I used to date._ Three thousand people had heard Cas and _the Seraphims_ play _Nepenthe_. There was one shitty recording of it on youtube, with the screams of the crowd filtering out the true beauty of it. Dean had been at their only concert before Castiel Milton dropped out of the band, he'd tell them. You know, the really famous show where his nose was streaming blood but he carried on playing anyway? He never told them he was the one who carried Cas bleeding in his arms through the doors of the emergency room after he walked backstage and almost collapsed. He never said he'd held his hand while he threw up in cardboard hospital bowls and cradled him through chemo sessions. When people speculated about what could have been wrong with him, Dean never said myeloma.

Sometimes he could go days without thinking of Cas.

There were people Dean had taken to bed who’d stopped mid-fuck to look him in the eye and ask ‘who’s Cas?’, and Dean would have to stop and cry and sit in the shower, and wait for them to leave. There had been a few that waited it out on the edge of his mattress, staring at the bathroom door. Dean would come out, silent, and offer them a cigarette. He couldn’t explain it. It didn’t make all that much sense. He didn’t know why it fucked him up so bad but it did. In the end, they all left him. He had too many hang ups. He wasn’t interested in moving on. They were right, and Dean knew it, but somehow he couldn’t ever bring himself to try and change.

There was a whole weekend once, where Dean drove out into the country with this girl, and they had a picnic by Lake Michigan and she told him she was in love with him, and right until she said it he’d not thought of him.

Had Cas ever said he loved him too?

It plagued him. Had he, though? It didn’t matter either way, really. He just wanted to know the answer. They’d been in love, right? That’s why it was all so difficult. That’s why fucking up was the worst thing he’d done in his life, why it felt like he’d been going through the motions for the past half a decade, because even though he’d started eating again and getting dressed and out of bed and speaking to people and leaving the house and getting to work and coming home and doing it over and over and over… He still felt like he hadn’t managed to put himself together again.

Cas had looked together. That was good, but it hurt. Tiny, selfish voices in Dean’s head cried that he had hoped Cas was every bit as messed up as he was. He’d hoped that maybe the reason Cas was staying out of the lime light was because he found it just as hard to make it through every day as Dean did, knowing what they could have had, but didn’t.

Obviously that wasn’t the case.

Dean pressed his eyes shut and lay flat on his mattress.

He'd looked really good. Dean supposed that meant everything with... his twin (Dean refused to think his name) had gone as well as it could have. He'd not expected Gabe to make good on his promise and had spent many anxious months expecting to hear news on the radio that it had happened, and Cas was gone. Reckless and paranoid, he became convinced that he was gone and they'd all fought to keep it under wraps, just so that Dean wouldn't find out about it. All nonsense, of course. All stupid, trivial shit. 

Cas had looked gorgeous. As beautiful as he'd been before and then some. 

Dean wished, for the first time, that he’d tried to let go. 

The wish was fleeting. 


	23. The Addict

The next few weeks, Dean tried to carry on as usual.

He acted like he barely noticed the crumpled lines across his poster of Cas. He pretended that all of a sudden listening to _Seraphims_ was of no interest to him, as though the reason was preference and not that he couldn’t stand to hear the familiar lilts of Cas’ voice trapped in his headphones now he’d heard them again in real life.

His work was suffering; his partner asked if he was having trouble with the missus. The question had sent knives through Dean; he’d been working with the same girl for almost two years now and she didn’t even know if he was married. Did he really talk that little to people? The realization came to him in waves. When was the last time he called Charlie? How long had it been since he’d had a conversation with Sam that wasn’t about being forced to leave the house?

The city adorned Christmas lights and evergreens began to crowd the sidewalks by the grocers’, and people on the streets smiled a little brighter. Dean walked in a dream between the hospital and his apartment. He’d drink himself to sleep and wake up half-stuck to his mattress or the seat of his couch or the carpet in the living room. Head in his hands, he waited for coffee to brew, the smell of it filling the air and saturating his mind enough that he could begin to think straight again.

It was the first of December, and if the festivities had been relentless before, they were unbearable now. Even the hospital had given in and hung tinsel everywhere it was safe to. There was a huge tree in the lobby with donated presents for the children’s ward spilling out from underneath it. A little girl in a pink dressing gown admired the arrangement, clutching onto her IV pole.

Dean just had a five am shift and he’d forgotten to pack breakfast, so at quarter past eleven he was trudging towards the café. There was a little gathering of people by the left of the tree; men and women in suits; kids with flashing cameras. Dean vaguely remembered that Sam had mentioned something about raising funds for people spending the holidays in the oncology unit, and tried unsuccessfully to banish the subject from his mind. He stared at the gathering, trying to pick out faces from the crowd. He could feel his blood pressure spiking, though he had no reason to think that Cas would be there, really. It was all conjectural.

Breakfast in the café was long finished so Dean had to settle for pie for breakfast. He wouldn’t usually have minded but hospital pie tasted like cardboard, dried fruit and glue. He shoved his fork unenthusiastically into the end of it, wondering if maybe he should have bought a packet of chips instead. At least the pie was pastry. People ate pastry for breakfast in Europe, right? They didn’t eat chips for breakfast anywhere except low-rent frat houses.

A god-awful cover of Slade’s _Merry Christmas Everybody_ rattled out of the café’s cheap speakers, somehow managing to surpass the original’s tackiness and replace the charming camp-ness of it with cringe-inducing sincerity. Dean tried to tune it out, focusing his attention on the people sitting around him instead. A bunch of junior doctors were sharing their third coffees of the day and talking a little too loudly about impacted bowels. It was quite interesting for a while until they happened to sling in the words ‘toxic-mega-colon’ and Dean had to try to surpress the urge to throw up.

Dean scanned the room for eavesdropping potential; old lady; pregnant woman; sad guy; ‘nother sad guy; Cas.

Wait, _Cas?_

He was sat in one of the arm chairs next to the glass doors, facing out to the little courtyard. In the summer, the doors stayed open so patients could eat their lunch by the pond. He had a book open in his lap, and a huge mug of coffee sat on the table in front of him. Something he read made him laugh and a smile spread across his face. He turned the page, eyes following it over. He froze, blue eyes wide and suddenly fixed on Dean. He smiled and ducked his head, and tried to turn back to his pages.

Dean looked down at his pie. He’d mashed half of it flat into the plate. The junior doctors had moved on, and the old lady was valiantly attempting to open a pot of yogurt. Dean peaked back over to Cas’ chair, but it was vacant. He tried to ignore the hideous sinking feeling in his stomach and stared down at his mashed pie again.

A soft laugh made him look up. Cas was sitting at the bistro table next to Dean’s. Dean felt his cheeks flush bright red and couldn’t help but grin back. “You know, if you wanted to talk you could come over instead of just lurking in my general vicinity.”

Dean shrugged. He wanted to say something funny or witty, but all he could managed was a meek little ‘ha’. Cas tilted his head to the side, still smiling. “So, I take it you’ve stopped trying to avoid me.”

“Ah… Avoid you?” Dean shook his head.

Cas sighed. “Well, you work here, right?”

“Yeah.”

Cas frowned. “Hmm.”

“You look really… great.”

Cas laughed, tossing his head back. “Thanks.”

Dean cracked a smile, folding his arms over his chest. “I don’t get it.”

Cas shrugged. “You look pretty good yourself.”

Dean’s neck felt unduly warm. He cleared his throat. “So, what brings you here?”

Cas raised an eyebrow. He inclined his head towards the group of suits next to the Christmas tree.

“Ah. Fundraisers. You’re all about giving now, huh?”

Cas flickered his gaze down to Dean’s lips, fast but deliberate. “Always was.”

Dean gulped.

Cas sat up, lifting his coffee. “Sorry.” He took an audible gulp. “That was inappropriate.”

Dean sniggered. “Yeah, well.”

“You still driving that muscle car?”

“Baby?” Dean laughed. “Yeah, when I have a minute spare. My apartment’s just round the corner from here, actually, so I mostly walk to work.”

Cas smiled indulgently. “Sounds nice.”

Dean sighed. “Well, you know. What about you?”

“Oh, I live in an apartment in River West.”

“Fancy.”

“I can’t complain.” Cas leaned forward on the table. “Dean, I… I’m sorry I got pulled away the other night. You know what those things are like. The people are unbearable.”

“Tell me about it,” Dean muttered.

“I really mean it. I’m sorry.”

Dean averted his gaze to the ground. “It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”

Cas hummed quietly in a way that suggested he would. “Look, I. There’s somewhere I need to go in a few minutes, but I’d love to catch up properly sometime.”

Dean looked up. “Yeah?”

Cas smiled, dazzling. “I mean, if you want to as well. Don’t want to force you or anything.”

“That’d be great.”

Cas beamed as though triumphant. This didn’t sit well in Dean’s stomach. Cas pulled out his phone. “Put your number in; I’ll text you.”

Dean obliged and handed back the phone. Their fingers brushed just slightly and electric fizzed up Dean’s arm. He stared intently at the collar of Cas’ stylishly over-sized sweater. “Okay. I got to go now. Honestly, though. We’ll meet up.”

Dean tried to smile back at him as earnestly as he could, but he didn’t believe him. Cas’ pulled on a long navy coat and it contrasted perfectly against his mustard yellow trousers. He was way to stylish for the muted-pink café, for the squeaky clean hospital, to be talking to Dean in his plaid and his jeans. Cas waved over the barrier, and crossed the lobby, disappearing in the thin crowd.

Dean dropped his forehead to the desk. His phone buzzed in his pocket. _Thanks for brightening my day. Castiel x_

_U too,_  Dean replied. After a moment with his thumb hovering over the letter on his keyboard, he added a tentative _‘x’._

_Sorry, got to turn phone off now. Speak soon. X_

_Ok x_

Dean grinned until his face hurt. He got home, played _Seraphims_ full blast until it went dark, and drank a whole crate of beer by himself. Lying on the rug in his tiny living room, something awful occurred to Dean. He didn’t know what reason Gabe had given for Dean walking out on him. What did Cas think had happened? Maybe the reason he was being so cool was because Gabe had been uncharacteristically forgiving. Maybe it was all going to go to shit the moment Cas found out the truth.

He squeezed his eyes shut. _Wait up, Dean-o_ , he thought. He had no idea where this was going. They hadn’t even arranged a date for coffee or whatever, and even when they did, was it a date or were they really, actually just catching up? Maybe they were hooking up. The thought stirred Dean enough that he crawled from the floor onto the couch. He knew just fucking Cas would be a bad idea, but he was also pretty certain that if the opportunity presented itself, he wouldn’t pass it up. He was only human, after all.

Maybe Cas just wanted to talk. What justification did Dean have for assuming Cas was interested in anything more than that besides the kisses at the end of his texts and the crude comment he’d made at the table. God, the etiquette of texting was so subjective; Charlie would be mortally offended if Dean didn’t include a kiss and at least one emoji in all of their digital correspondence, but half the peopled he’d ‘dated’ in the past few years didn’t expect it at all. As for the comment, Cas had always had a whore mouth.

The thought made Dean groan with frustration and he covered his face with his hands. My god, he was a mess about this. Maybe agreeing to meet up with him wasn’t the best idea after all.

Sam put the same question to him the next day over emergency pep-talk Starbucks. “You’ve been pretty cut up over him since the two of you broke up. Are you sure spending time with him isn’t just going to make it worse? Especially if you don’t know where he’s expecting it to go.”

“Man, I don’t know. Every time I see him I just feel so…” Dean shook his head and shrugged.

Sam raised an eyebrow and stirred his skinny latte. “What do you want out of it?”

“I don’t know. I just want to see him more.” With a guilty sideways glance, Dean added a third sachet of sugar to his coffee.

“You’re going to get diabetes,” Sam muttered.

“At least I’ll die happy.”

Sam pursed his lips. “Dean. You know all I want is for you to be okay, right?”

Dean nodded and shrunk in on himself, hugged one arm across his chest. “I know, Sammy.”

“I don’t want you to get hurt.”

Dean laughed bitterly. “This has hurt from day one.”

Sam smiled sadly. “Well, just do what you think is best.”

“Yesterday I drank a whole crate of beer by myself and passed out on the couch in the apartment I’ve lived alone in for four years. It’s been,” he paused to count on his fingers, “thirteen months since I got laid and,” he counted again, “three years since I had anything more than a one night stand. I don’t think my capacity for decision making is very good.”

Sam rolled his eyes, smiling fondly. “Yeah, but somehow you always seem to figure it out.”

Dean sighed. “You’re just happy because I made a friend.”

“I’m not sure this counts, given you already knew each other.”

Dean shrugged. “I’m marking it down as a win.”

“Well, that’s something, at least,” Sam allowed.

 

 

Cas’ next text didn’t come until the fifth. _Tomorrow, three o’clock? X_

Dean didn’t see it until two hours after it’d been sent. He’d been out in the ambulance, but he counted it as playing it cool. _Sounds good. Where at? X_

Cas’ reply was almost instantaneous, like he’d been waiting for Dean to respond. _We could meet at the hospital and walk into town? I know a place x_

_Cool. See you there. X_

Dean clutched the phone to his chest and dashed out of the locker room, as though getting home faster would somehow bring tomorrow on sooner. He pulled open his wardrobe and stared at its uninspiring contents. Everything he owned was plaid. Normally that was fine but Cas had been so frightening well-dressed that Dean was worried. What was the accepted dress code for coffee with one’s ex? Were they even going for coffee? What else could you do at three o’clock, really? He wound up falling asleep in a pile of his own shirts.

Cas was waiting for Dean in the plastic chairs by the door to the lobby. His navy coat was fully buttoned up, a huge grey scarf draped around his neck and over his shoulders. He sat hunched forwards, scanning the crowds. He was suddenly nervous. Cas spotted him and smiled. He got to his feet.

“Nice scarf,” Dean said.

“Yeah?” Cas shrugged.

Dean shook his head. “So, where we going?”

“There’s this cute coffee place not far from here.”

Cas walked half a step in front of Dean, navigating the crowds with ease. He kept turning to make sure Dean was still following him. There was a slight but icy breeze that kept ruffling his hair. he breathed misty clouds. Looking at him made Dean’s stomach hurt. Every time Cas looked over his shoulder at him, Dean thought he was going to cry.

Dean has seen a lot of shit. Car crashes, heart attacks, domestic violence, you name it. A huge amount of the calls in their district, though, come from drug overdoses. A common cause of accidental overdose in drug addicts thinking their resistance to a drug stays the same if they try to quit. He’d heard the story again and again – they quit, clean their systems, and one day they think ‘huh, one last hit would be nice’, or ‘I need to prove to myself I can stop again if I want’ or whatever else gets junkies back on junk, and they take the same amount as what would have barely made a difference to them before, and it kills them. Absence makes the heart fonder, and tolerances weaker.

“Here we are,” Cas announced, pulling up short so suddenly that Dean almost ran into him. Instead, he lamely thudded shoulders with him, half-spinning in the wrong direction. Cas chuckled, little lines creasing around his eyes and making Dean’s insides sing.

The coffee shop wasn’t cute, exactly. It was furnished entirely in slate, raw wood and fabrics that matched those colors. It was warm and close, but pleasantly so, with the smell of coffee rich and heavy in the air. The coffee machine behind the dainty counter was finished in brass and looked way too big to be functional, but it must have been, because little spurts of steam were coming out of it all over.

“I’ll buy,” Cas announced. “You still cream and two sugars?”

Dean gulped. “Yeah, ‘course.”

“Alright. Grab a seat. I’ll join you in a minute.”

Dean went and sat anxiously on the only colored object in the room; a dark green couch. It was next to a small slate-topped table, facing two tub chairs. He realized he’d designed an awkward situation for Cas, and half-stood up, eyes on a bistro table by the tiny window at the front of the shop.

“Ah, you found my favorite seat.” Cas sat down next to Dean on the couch he was squatting over. He slammed back into the cushions, rattling Cas’ tray, which had a lot more on it than two coffees. “I forgot to ask what food you wanted, but they do this thing here where they cut up the desserts really small if you can’t decide which.”

Dean stared at the line of twelve tiny pieces of pie, cake and pastry spread before them. “Oh, wow,” Dean muttered.

“The first couple of times I came here I ordered the platter for myself,” Cas admitted.

Dean turned to him. The couch really wasn’t all that big. If Cas hadn’t angled his body towards Dean and squashed himself right into the corner, their shoulders would have been touching. So – not choosing to sit in the tub chairs meant he wasn’t trying to sit away from him, but he clearly didn’t want to sit _close_ to him either. Cas was studying Dean with cool amusement in his sparkling eyes, head tilted to the side, waiting for him to finally say the thing he’d turned around to tell him. Dean cleared his throat.

“You mean, I have to share this with you?” Dean asked, hoping his grin would throw off the color of his face (from the burning sensation in his cheeks, he was guessing somewhere between fuchsia and scarlet).

Cas tossed his head back, laughing. “That’d be nice.” He stood up again, taking off his coat and scarf and draping them over one of the tub chairs. Dean watched, stirring his coffee idly, drinking in the way Cas moved. When he sat down Dean was washed in the smell of clean laundry and cinnamon.

“Which ones are your favorites?” Dean asked, gesturing at the assortment.

Cas narrowed his eyes with mock suspicion. “So you can spare them, or so you can claim them for yourself?”

“Oh, right, because we’re _sharing_ this,” Dean sighed, rolling his eyes.

“I paid for it!” Cas protested with a laugh. He leaned forward. “Let me see. I think the cakes are nicest; red velvet; coffee and walnut; banana. I like the angel cake best,” he said, pointing at a small pink and yellow sponge with white frosting. “But you can have that one.”

“Awh, I don’t want to steal it from you.”

“You need to try it for yourself,” Cas shook his head. “That cake is an _experience._ ”

“Oh, wow. You want me to step out? Leave you guys alone together?” Dean asked.

Cas laughed. “Seriously. Eat the cake.”

One eyebrow raised, Dean took a tentative bite. The cake was delicious. Cas was leaning towards Dean, biting his lip with anticipation. “It’s good,” Dean concluded. The smile that split across Cas’ face was glorious.

“Okay, now the walnut.”

It continued like this for an hour, Cas instructing Dean and closely observing his receipt of every miniature slice. He only had two for himself, and only took those at Dean’s insistence. “I don’t even _like_ custard tart, Cas.” Cas nibbled the end of the slice for a few seconds before catching Dean’s gaze in the corner of his eye and shoving the whole thing in his mouth. They both laughed, Cas with his hands over his lips to stop crumbs from spraying everywhere.

They talked almost exclusively about the cake at hand, and nothing else. They didn’t talk about work or music or the time they’d spent apart. It felt simultaneously as though they’d been best friends for years, and that they were meeting for the first time. In a way, that’s exactly what it was. They’d long finished their coffees. Dean was animatedly explaining how his mother’s pies were the best he’d ever tasted. “We moved up to New England after her and my dad split, and for the first time in her life my mom had _tons_ of fresh apples to cook with. The neighbors used to bring them around in huge baskets and me and Sammy would sit and help her peel them. I remember the juice used to drip all down my elbows.”

Cas rested his chin on his hand, watching Dean speaking. He gestured with his hands, indicating the sizes of stacks of apples and the depths of the pies, how tall he and Sam were, how big the biggest apple had been. “I swear that thing was the size of Sammy’s head, my god,” Dean finished with a sigh, shaking his head.

“And no other pies have come close?” Cas asked. Dean blushed, pink dancing across his cheeks beneath his freckles. It made Cas feel as though his heart was about to burst right from his chest every time he made Dean blush like that.

“Sorry, I must be boring the hell out of you,” Dean mumbled with an apologetic smile.

“No. It sounds wonderful.”

Dean sighed. “Yeah. No, never had a pie come close to mom’s pies.”

Cas had to look away. “Sorry. You must miss her very much.”

“’Course I do.” Dean smiled weakly, eyes flitting between each of Cas’. “Missed you too.”

Cas’ breath caught in his throat. He looked down at the table, at the long empty slates with smears of frosting and their coffee cups, decorated with crumbs of coffee grounds. He wasn’t sure why it upset him to hear that. It would not be better if Dean had gone on with his life uncaring, unfeeling, as though they had never met. There had been times where Cas imagined that was what was going on. The time he climbed, climbed the stairs in Dean’s apartment building and pounded his fists against the door as hard as he could, but nobody answered. His neighbor came out and looked at Cas slumped on the floor, knuckles bleeding. “I think he’s gone, son.”

That’d had been right before they’d stopped letting him out of the hospital. His immune system was too weak, they said, but he knew they didn’t trust him. He didn’t really trust himself. He spent hours staring at the chair beside his bed, the place where Dean had always sat. The spaces between his fingers had ached in the absence of Dean’s to press them apart. He’d never felt more small and uninspired than he had been those days, broken on that bed, waiting for toxins to burn the rest of his defenses away so there’d be no argument when they replaced it with Jimmy’s.

“Cas?”

Cas blinked. He’d been quiet and still for a long time, he supposed. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine. You want to leave?” Dean asked gently.

Cas looked up and around the shop. It was one of his favourite places in the city, but the air was still and hot and suddenly impossible to inhale. He nodded vigorously and got to his feet, jamming his arms into the sleeves of his coat before running towards the door.

Outside the air was so could it felt like someone had dropped a bucket of water over Cas’ head. There was frost in the air. A clock in the window of a store across the street pointed at almost exactly five o’clock.

“Cas! Wait! You forgot your scarf.”

Cas turned. Dean was flushed and ruffled, panting short foggy breaths into the half-lit streets. The Christmas lights were just flickering into life, and they caught in Dean’s eyes, making them twinkle. He held Cas’ scarf out towards him, expression guarded.

“Thank you,” Cas whispered. He took his scarf and wound the already chilly fabric around his neck. He fished his gloves out of his pockets and stuffed his hands into them, knowing he’d regret it later if he didn’t.

“You okay?”

Cas shook his head. “Yeah, yeah. I’m fine.”

Dean half-smiled. “Still giving out mixed messages.”

Cas tried to shake off enough tension to laugh, and didn’t quite manage it. “God, it’s cold.”

“You want me to walk you home?”

“No, no. It’s fine. I can manage.”

“Not going to freak out and abandon any more items of clothing?”

This time, Cas laughed. “No. I’ll be fine, I promise.” He shuddered and it made his head hurt.

“Come on,” Dean said tiredly. “Humour me.”

Cas sighed, head angled down, peering up at Dean through his eyelashes. “Alright, fine.”

Dean grinned victoriously and Cas rolled his eyes. “Which way, maestro?”

“Maestro?” Cas echoed, but he pointed in the right direction.

Dean shoved his hands into his pockets and walked half a foot away from Cas’ side.

“You really didn’t have to do this,” Cas reminds him.

“I know. I wanted to. It’s good manners.”

Cas peered over at him tentatively. Did that mean he thought they’d been on a date? Had they been on a date? Cas looked quickly back at the floor.

The sound of Christmas music drifted from every store front they passed, but the further they walked, they began to realize there was other, louder music coming from nearby. They were definitely moving towards it. They followed the street around a corner and it opened up into a small square. There were a few stalls set up, vending candy and roast chestnuts and cups of mulled cider and wine. The smell was gorgeous.

There was a choir and a live band gathered on a small bandstand in the middle of the square, which explained the music. To the right of that, surrounded by Christmas trees and cut outs of reindeer, was a temporary ice rink.

“Oh man, it’s been ages since I’ve skated.”

“I’ve never skated before.”

Dean turned back to face him properly again. “Never?” Cas shook his head. “Not even when you were a kid?”

“Never.”

The choir started singing _Wonderful Christmas time._ “That’s practically child abuse!” Dean announced.

Cas snorted. “Right. Okay.”

Dean grinned with childish glee, eyes wide with mischief. “Come on. You’re all lithe and graceful anyways. You’ll be fine. What’s the worst that could happen?”

Cas raised an eyebrow. “‘Lithe and graceful’?”

Dean turned back to the skaters, criminally obscuring his blush. “Forget that part,” he muttered hurriedly, before turning back with an even wider smile than before. “It’ll be fun.”

"And if I fall?" 

Dean laughed. “ _When_  you fall I’ll pull you right back up onto your feet again.” 

Cas considered that for a moment. “Well. I suppose it _is_ Christmas.”

Dean whooped. “It’s a Christmas miracle!” Without hesitation, he grabbed Cas’ hand and tugged him towards the entrance. Even through his gloves, Cas mind set alight. _He’s touching me, he’s touching me, he’s touching me!_

At the counter by the entrance, Dean produced his wallet and Cas practically swatted it out of his hands. “I’ll pay, seeings as it’s my inadequate childhood we’re making up for.”

“But you bought the coffee,” Dean protested meekly.

Cas brushed this off and put a twenty down on the counter. The guy handed them each a pair of skates – the kind you fasten over the shoes you’re already wearing – and a moment later, they were taking teetering steps out onto the ice.

Cas clung to the edge of the rink, looking worriedly over at Dean. “This was a terrible idea.”

"Nope,” Dean laughed, “it’s wonderful.”

Cas continued to cling. His face, pink before, had gone bright red. He looked like he might be about to laugh or cry – Dean couldn’t quite tell which. “I look ridiculous.”

Dean had to giggle. “Exactly.”

“Stop laughing at me.”

“Stop clinging to the wall.”

“If I stop clinging I’ll fall.”

“Didn’t I say I’d catch you?” Dean reminded him with a grin. Cas looked sceptical. “Come on. Have a little faith.”

Cas rolled his eyes but took a deep breath like he was psyching himself up for something. Then, very cautiously, he lifted his hands from the side. He turned to Dean in shock. “I’m still vertical.”

“You’re also stationary.”

“How on earth am I supposed to get any forward momentum? If I lift one of my feet I’ll be on the ice; I can feel it. I’ve not got much structural integrity right now.” As if to make a point, Cas wobbled dangerously. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all. The choir finished one song and another started up, painfully familiar. Cas’ eyes were wide, like he would be bolting if he could be.

“Lean forward.”

“What?!”

“Lean forwards.”

Cas gaped at him. “I’ll fall on my face. I’m fine where I am, thank you very much.”

“Come on, Cas,” Dean pleaded. As Cas shook his head again, Dean skates right up to him and takes both of his hands. “Lean forwards,” Dean told him again. Cas looked up at him, eyes trusting but doubtful. He shifted his weight, his hands trembling in Dean’s grip. One of his feet slipped to the side but Dean yanked his arm up and kept him steady.

"I’m terrible at this.” 

“You’re fine. It’s been like two minutes, Cas. Give yourself a break.”

“Ha.” Cas took a shuddery breath. “Alright. Are we just staying like this or are we supposed to be moving?”

“Move one foot in front of the other without lifting it – yeah, that’s great. Now the other one,” Dean encourages. Cas did it, and they both slid forward just an inch. Cas looked up from his feet in surprise. “See? Piece of pie,” Dean assured him. They took a few more steps, then Dean let go of Cas’ hands. He seemed fine for a moment, then he went sailing forward. With a quick slide and knock to his chest Dean caught him. Cas clung to Dean’s waist. 

“I think I’d like to stop now,” Cas mumbled into the front of Dean’s coat. 

“But you’re doing so great,” Dean teased. Cas glared at him with narrowed eyes. The most devastating thing about him, Dean concluded fairly quickly, was his lips. Right now he had them just slightly parted and blowing mist into the icy air between them. It wouldn’t take much just to lean in and cover them with his own.

“Dean?” Cas’ blue eyes searched Dean’s. Dean wished desperately that he knew what was going on behind them.

“Let’s go, if you’ve had enough,” he muttered defeatedly, letting his arms fall away to leave Cas exposed to the cold again. He shivered delicately despite all of his layers and looked off across the rink, at the couples whirling around them.

“It’s alright, I get it,” Dean sighed.

Cas turned back to Dean, frowning. He reached out and grabbed Dean’s fingers as tightly as he had when he thought he was going to fall. “You don’t.”

Dean grimaced, closing his eyes. Oh, god, what a fucking stupid idea today had been. Cas’ other hand pressed lightly against Dean’s shoulder. “Dean,” he whispered commandingly.

Dean opened his eyes. Cas was staring very obviously at Dean’s mouth. “You got real personal space issues, you know that?”

Cas ducked his head, hiding a smile. “Perhaps you should stop pulling me closer then.”

Dean’s free hand had snaked around to the small of Cas’ back of it’s own accord. Dean curled his fingers against his palm. Cas licked his lips, and _damn_. Dean inclined his head and kissed him. His lips were cold but the inside of his mouth was crazy warm. Cas hand on Dean’s shoulder crept over to his neck, fingers winding into the short hairs at the base of his skull and pulling just slightly.

Around them, the music swelled:

_And the moment I can feel that_

_You feel that way too_

_Is when I fall in love_

_With you._


	24. Dance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter is NSFW.

They pulled apart, moving a little back from one another.

“Still ready to go?” Dean asked after a moment.

Cas chuckled. “I’ve had enough ice skating for the rest of my life, but,” he shrugged.

“Hmm.” Dean considered for a moment. “Oh! There’s this bar I went to round the corner from here. We could go there?”

“What a glittering recommendation.” Cas grinned. “Alright, bar-Dean’s-been-to-before it is.”

The trudged across the frosty sidewalks and into the bar. It wasn’t a dive, but it wasn’t exactly the cream of sophistication either. They sat in one of the booths along the wall. Cas started getting his wallet out again.

“Jesus! You going to let me pay for anything?”

“Just Cas will do,” Cas muttered smugly. “I don’t know. Should I?”

“Yes, you should,” Dean said firmly. “What you drinking?”

Cas flashed a smile. “Vodka and diet coke?”

Dean scoffed. “You’re such a poof,” he teased.

Cas rolled his eyes. “You know it, sweetheart.”

Dean sprang up from the table, ordered Cas’ drink and a tequila sunrise for himself. Cas raised his eyebrow as he set the drinks on the table. Dean flicked the tiny paper umbrella hanging over the edge of his glass.

“You compensating for something?” he asked.

Dean rolled his eyes. “This shit is amazing.”

“I don’t drink tequila.”

“Why the hell not?”

Cas grimaced. “Bad experiences.”

“Awh, c’mon. That’s not tequila’s fault, is it?”

“No, but unfortunately the taste of it makes me gag. It reminds me too much…” Cas glanced away from Dean for a moment then exhaled loudly, shaking his head.

“What?”

“No, it doesn’t matter.”

“That’s against the rules.”

“It’s not important.”

“Awh, spill. You had to listen to me waffling about my mom for eighty six years, I’m sure your tequila stories will be more exciting.”

Cas pressed his lips into a thin line. “No, it’s not actually the tequila. It’s just the taste. When I,” he paused, taking a breath. “When you have chemo you get this awful taste in your mouth. It reminds me of that.”

There was a beat of silence. Ah, fuck. Dean had really put his foot in it, hadn’t he? He took a deep breath and said “I wonder what that says about tequila.”

Cas barked a laugh. “I wonder.”

Dean drank more, hiding his fading smile. “Cas…”

Cas’ shoulders hunched. He looked down into his drink. “Don’t.”

Dean sighed. “No, I just. I want to say I’m sorry.”

Cas looked up. “Dean, please.” He took a big gulp of his drink. “Let’s just have a good time, alright?”

Dean winced, but nodded. “Alright.”

For a couple of drinks, it was difficult to maintain conversation, but after that, they both loosened up. Cas looped his arm through Dean’s when they left the first bar and dragged him down the same street, insisting he knew a great place for a party. They ended up in an extremely scummy nightclub that made Dean worry about Cas’ well-being. Cas no longer seemed worried about anything. He drank and laughed and listened attentively to all of Dean’s boring work stories and anecdotes about Sam and his cleverness. Cas seemed completely enthralled. It put Dean on edge. When they’d first met, Cas had been completely consumed by himself, and whilst the new attention was flattering, it bugged Dean that he couldn’t get a word out of Cas about his own life.

Cas pressed a plastic cup into Dean’s hand. “What’s this?” he shouted over the music.

“A jaeger bomb,” Cas yelled in reply, then knocked his head back to gulp it in one.

“Fuck,” Dean spluttered, and copied him. The drink was horribly sweet and clung to the walls of his mouth. “That was disgusting.”

“I know,” Cas replied with a grin.

“Why’d you do it, then?”

“Fun, I guess,” Cas replied with a shrug. “Come on! Let’s dance.” He grabbed Dean’s hand and that small skin-on-skin contact was enough to silence any argument. Cas was very, very drunk. He kept stumbling on his way over to the stage. Dean was tipsy, yeah, but he’d been working on his tolerance for quite some time. Luckily, Cas didn’t seem to notice.

The dancefloor was made of light up squares that flashed in time with the music. Cas’ pale skin drank the colors and shone them back. Dean swayed awkwardly and Cas danced with the crowd, movements led by his hips. After the first song he took off his heavy jumper and knotted it around his waist. God, he was still so skinny, Jesus. Tearing his eyes from Cas’ pelvis again, Dean was stunned into silence. His now-exposed arms were covered in intricate tattoos. Noticing Dean’s attention, Cas raised his arms in a cross over his head, grinning. He leaned forwards. “You like them?”

“They’re beautiful,” Dean promised. Cas took Dean’s hand and trailed it up his over arm, over the patterns and shapes. It was too dark to make them out properly.

“Am I?” Cas asked, batting his eyelashes again.

“God, yes,” Dean curved his body against Cas, pressing their lips together with surprising force. Cas’ mouth was tasted sweet and alcoholic. His tongue brushed the inside of Dean’s lip and a shiver ran down his spine. They kissed like they’d snuck out of prom to kiss behind the gym where nobody else could see, as though the world was about to end and there was no time to speak.

Cas pulled back, both arms around Dean’s neck and they stared at each other. Cas’ eyes flicked down shyly and then he kissed Dean again, brief and insistent. Dean had forgotten he could be like that. Each meeting the other’s gaze, they smiled. _Oh, it’s you._

“Let’s go,” Cas whispered into Dean’s ear.

They staggered out of the club into the cold Chicago night. The city was twinkling around them. They kissed again and Cas laughed and wound his scarf around Dean’s neck. Dean let Cas lead him on, down through the streets, all perfect and quiet. When they got to River West, Cas stumbled to a halt by the doors to a fancy terraced house. His pockets jingled as he rooted around them for his keys. He bundled small boxes under one arm as he searched before finally producing them. He cracked the door wide finally. “Sh!” he whispered theatrically, and bounded up the stairs.

He dropped one of the boxes and Dean stooped to catch it. Citalopram. A cold chill ran through Dean. On the middle landing, Cas was leaning against the wall, watching Dean, giggling. “Come on, hurry up,” he urged.

Dean pocketed the pills and jogged up after him.

Cas lived on the top floor. His apartment was huge and gorgeous, but strangely empty. Dean took off his jacket and stood by the window, looking down at the river. Cas, having finished the apparently difficult task of closing the door, stalked behind him, pressing his lips to Dean’s neck, hands winding across his chest. “You want something to drink?”

“I’m good,” Dean replied, twisting in Cas arms to join their lips together again. Cas still had his coat on. He clung to the front of Dean’s shirt. Something in the back of Dean’s mind muttered _this is wrong_ , but he ignored it, and kissed Cas even more enthusiastically. Weeks ago Dean thought he would never see Cas again. For so long he’d thought he’d never be able to hold him or touch him or kiss him, and god, there he was. Warm and eager and oh so very _there_.

Dean pushed Cas’ coat off. His jumper was still tied around his waist and his tattooed arms were freezing. Dean kissed down one of them and Cas shuddered, stealing himself away before Dean could reach his elbow. “Not there,” Cas whispered, pulling Dean close again.

Cas grabbed the hem of Dean’s shirt and pulled it right off, throwing it onto the floor. His hands were cold as they caressed Dean’s chest, but he didn’t mind. Cas hooked his fingers through the belt loops and led him backwards to the sofa, where they fell together. Dean was on his knees, sitting over Cas’ lap. Cas nipped Dean’s ear lobe and Dean hissed with pleasure. Cas curled his fingers against Dean’s skin, nails biting against him. “Is this okay?” Cas whispered.

“God, yeah,” Dean murmured back, catching his mouth again. Cas drew lines of fire either side of Dean’s spine with his nails. They curved forwards over his hips. Dean pulled back a little so he could watch them turn red.

Cas was biting his lip, watching Dean’s expression carefully. He pressed the pad of his thumb against the middle of Dean’s bottom lip. “You… you want to touch me, Dean?”

“Oh, Cas. _Cas_ ,” Dean moaned. Cas sat up a little to let Dean take off his shirt, too. Dean’s breath hitched. He ran a hand cautiously down Cas’ chest, frightened suddenly that he was going to crumble into nothing. There was a short, wide scar just under his collar bone, and Dean immediately recognized it as the place where is catheter used to disappear. He had a long gash framed by white dots along the bottom of his ribcage, right around to his back.

“What?” Cas whispered.

“I…” Dean couldn’t find words appropriate, so he just kissed him instead. Cas didn’t mind, rolling back against the couch and sighing into him. They rolled so Dean was the one reaching to be kissed. Cas held Dean’s wrists together in one hand and pinned them to the couch, kissing down from behind his ear all the way to the button on his jeans.

“To bed,” he said softly, with a gentle nip at Dean’s hip.

That was not an instruction Dean needed to be given twice. He stood up and offered Cas a hand to join him. They walked through the apartment hand in hand. Like the living room, Cas’ bedroom had a wall of windows that faced out to the water. His bed was huge and unmade. There were piles of clothes scattered all over the floor. Cas didn’t turn on the light, so the room was illuminated in pale orange by the moon and the streetlights.

The bed smelled of Cas, and for a moment, Dean thought he was going to cry, but then Cas bit down hard on the muscle between his shoulder and his neck and he couldn’t think straight anymore. Cas moved with quiet certainty and Dean watched him, transfixed. Both of them naked, Cas took Dean’s hands and made them caress his entire body. Dean arced up, kissing Cas’ throat, eliciting quiet gasps and moans.

Now they’d been given permission, Dean’s hands roamed Cas’ body unfettered. “Dean,” Cas growled, taking Dean’s hand and forcing it to his crotch. Dean froze under Cas’ command, peering up, fingers around Cas’ cock. “Do it.”

Dean obliged. “Am I good at this?”

“You are, you are,” Cas panted, one hand flat between Dean’s shoulder blades. Dean dipped forwards and kissed him on the inside of his thigh. “Fuck.”

“Am I good?” Dean asked.

“Yes, you’re good. You’re a good boy.”

Dean mewled and Cas clawed him. Dean had missed him, my god. Nobody could undo Dean the way Cas could. Nobody, not once in all those years had made him scream the way Cas used to. They’d try, of course, but it wasn’t the same. And usually he’d be yelling Cas’ name anyway. “Cas!”

“What, Dean?” Dean ignored the way Cas slightly slurred his words. “What do you want?”

Dean moaned shamelessly. “Fuck me, _please fuck me_.”

Cas gasped and pulled himself free of Dean’s hand and shoved Dean back against the pillows, kissing him. One hand slipped between Dean’s thighs and he yelped from the chill of it. “Hush,” Cas soothed, stroking the side of Dean’s face with his other hand. He lifted Dean’s leg, bending his knee. Dean let him, as though he didn’t know exactly what Cas was doing. Cas leaned over to his bedside table and returned with a bottle of lube. It still had a seal on it, which he broke with his teeth. Dean raised an eyebrow and Cas theatrically pretended to blow dust off the bottle.

“C’mon,” Dean protested.

“You know what?” Cas muttered darkly, and then he shoved his fingers into Dean’s mouth. Dean licked them enthusiastically and Cas laughed. “So eager.”

“Please,” Dean reiterated.

“Please what?”

“Fuck me.”

“Right away?” Cas asked coyly, batting his eyelashes. Fucking bastard.

“Cas,” Dean growled.

“You going to fight me? Hmm?” Cas asked, and just as Dean was about to snap another retort, Cas pushed into him and he moaned. Cas threw his head back, revelling in it. “You make such pretty noises.” Dean moaned again and Cas rewarded him by moving a little deeper. Dean writhed.

“Cas, I want you so bad,” he cried brokenly. “Please.”

“Awh, poor little thing,” Cas cooed, forcing Dean a little wider and making his back arch involuntarily.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Dean barked.

Cas tutted. “Don’t make me gag you,” he warned, eyes flashing dangerously. Cas muffled his protests with a hand over his mouth. Dean moaned, air blasting through Cas’ fingers. “Oh, I bet you’d love that,” Cas concluded, and slipped in another finger. Dean threw his head back.

“’Nough, god, that’s ‘nough!” Dean cried desperately until Cas moved his hands. “Enough! Come on, Cas. Please.” He tried to smile angelically and it must have worked because Cas licked his lips and moved back, withdrawing his hand. Dean sat up, following Cas’ movements. “How do you want me?”

“Oh, _fuck_ , Dean Winchester. You should be _detained_ ,” Cas rasped.

“Why? You got any handcuffs?”

Cas groaned, squeezing his eyes shut. “Over the end of the bed,” he said darkly.

“Yes, sir.” Dean smirked as Cas’ expression grew even more tortured than before. He draped himself over the end of the bed. Cas hopped onto the floor fast but walked around to Dean slowly, gratuitously drinking in the sight of him there, waiting. Dean bit his lip and closed his eyes. He felt Cas’ hand brush slowly down his spine to the curve of his ass, where it stopped, and slapped him. Hard. Dean gasped, grabbing a fistful of the bedspread. “Fuck!” he gasped.

“You like that?”

Dean whimpered. “God, yes.”

Cas thrust into Dean fast, all at once. Dean cried out, clutching the bed again. Cas leaned forwards gently, pressing a kiss to Dean’s spine. “Hush, hush. I got you.” Cas rocked back slowly and Dean whimpered. “You still with me, Dean?”

“Yes, _yes_ ,” Dean gasped. With every thrust Dean felt more and more heat spreading through him. His toes burned and he could feel sweat on his shoulder blades and the backs of his knees. “Oh, fuck, Cas.”

Cas was swearing under his breath, a constant murmur of profanities. There was almost a melody to it. Dean was going to have bruises on his hips from how hard he was gripping them. Behind his eyes Dean could hear Cas singing, see him standing on a darkened stage, the lights low and making him shine.

“Say that thing,” Dean spluttered.

“What?” Cas gasped, breaking out of his rhythm for a moment.

“The thing you said at the show, on the stage?”

“ _What_?”

“The bible thing, I don’t fucking know.” Dean could feel his face was bright red.

Cas chuckled darkly. “You kinky bitch.”

“Guilty. God, Cas. Say it,” Dean whined.

“Be obedient,” Cas whispered, leaning forwards so Dean could feel the quiet words across his cheek. “I saw a star fallen from heaven unto Earth; to him was given the key to the abyss.”

Dean made a sound he didn’t know he was capable of making, somewhere between a scream and a whimper, and it felt like his entire body pulsed out of him and onto the bed. His grip on the sheets loosened. Cas held him firm by the hips again, and he felt no desire to move. With every jerk of Cas into him, Dean moaned softly, eyes fluttering half closed.

Cas was saying something, but Dean was no longer listening. Cas came and screamed, sounding completely and absolutely unhinged. Panting, he leaned against Dean’s back. “My god,” he gasped. “My _fucking_ god.”

He rolled aside, staring up at the ceiling. Dean opened his eyes. Cas had his eyes closed. The moonlight looked gorgeous on his skin. He had his arms thrown up over his head, mouth open as he tried to catch his breath. Dean tried to etch the moment into his mind; the curve of Cas’ lips; the shape of his nose; the way his eyelashes brushed against his cheekbones. Cas turned to Dean and opened his eyes. Even in the pale light his eyes were _so_ blue.

“Thank you,” Cas whispered.

“I made a mess of your sheets,” Dean pointed out.

Cas groaned. “Deal with it in the morning. I’m tired. And drunk.”

Dean chuckled, but it faded into nothing. Was he _too_ drunk?

Cas frowned. “What?”

Dean shook his head. “Nothing, I’m fine.”

“You’re a really bad liar,” Cas whispered.

Dean grimaced, rolling onto his back. “Can I use your shower?”

Cas huffed. “Yeah.” He sighed, sitting up. “I should probably shower too.” He got to his feet and opened a door that was the same color as the wall. He turned on the light in there and a fan flickered to light. Dean followed him.

The bathroom was huge and decorated in matt black and grey tiles, except when Cas turned on the shower, the black tiles turned different colors when the water hit them. Cas stood under the stream, his back to Dean. He had his shoulders hunched forwards. Dean could see the flicked end of the scar on his side now, like a pointed white tongue. He reached out and pressed his index finger to it. Cas flinched away, peering over his shoulder at Dean, frowning. “What?” he asked, groggily.

“Nothing.”

Cas looked down at the scar, covering it momentarily with his hand. “It’s from the kidney transplant,” he explained, turning back into the water. This time he tilted his head back so the stream distorted the shape of his face and plastered his hair to his skull.

Cas stepped back and gestured for Dean to take his place. Dean was reluctant to stop looking at Cas. Cas didn’t seem to care or notice. He poured shampoo onto his hands and rubbed them into his hair. Dean examined what he could see of the tattoos on his arms. Stars, rolling clouds like from ‘Stormy Night’, roses and lilies, meaningless patterns. “JN?” he asked, spotting the letters amidst a swirl.

Cas stopped applying shampoo. He looked ridiculous with soap suds covering his head and hands like a weird formless hat and gloves. “Jimmy.”

The name made Dean shudder. He looked down at his feet. They were bright red. “Right.”

Cas rinsed his hair and then shut off the shower. He handed Dean a deliciously fluffy towel and wandered, dripping and naked, back into the bedroom. When Dean followed a moment later, the room was empty. He looked around for his boxers in the scattered clothes around the room, but he couldn’t find them. “Cas?” he called. No reply. Would it be over stepping a line if he borrowed a pair of Cas’ pants?

Dean opened the top drawer in the shiny purple chest next to the wardrobe. There were exactly three pairs of underwear inside, and that was it. Frowning, Dean pulled a pair of them on. They were a bit too tight, but Dean could live with it.

He heard footsteps, and Cas appeared in the doorway in a silk robe, streaked with dark marks from his still-wet skin. He saw what Dean was wearing and frowned. “Couldn’t find my pants,” Dean explained.

“Oh, yeah.” Cas looked sadly around the room. “Sorry about the mess. It… It’s not usually like this.” He was carrying two glasses of water. He handed one of them to Dean.

“Thanks.”

“No problem.” Cas sipped his own water and set it on the bedside table.

“What’s with you?” Dean asked. “Are you disappointed?”

Cas looked up, appalled. “What a fucking stupid question,” he muttered.

“Is it stupid because you are, or you aren’t?” Dean sighed. “Unlike me, you’re a very good liar.”

Cas sat down next to Dean on the end of the bed, careful to leave a few inches between them. “Of course I’m not disappointed. You are _great_ in bed.”

Dean laughed sadly. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Sorry I’m such an ungrateful dick.” Cas’ voice was thick as though he was trying not to cry. Dean turned quickly to face him again, just in time to see a tear drop from the end of his nose.

“Oh, god. Don’t cry, Cas,” Dean fussed. He darted into the bathroom and returned with a wad of toilet paper which he then used to dab at Cas’ face.

Cas half-laughed, half-sobbed. “I’m s-sorry.”

“Baby, no. You don’t have anything to be sorry for.” Dean pulled him against his chest.

Bizarrely, Cas started to laugh. It was just a chuckle at first, but quickly it grew into fierce, uncontrollable laughter, so loud it was making Dean uncomfortable. Dean didn’t know what to do with himself. He sat up and moved away. He wasn’t sure what was happening. Maybe Cas had cracked. He wouldn’t stop laughing. He got to his feet, stumbling, doubling over he was laughing so hard. Then, as sudden as he’d started, he stopped. Silently, he sat down on one of the piles of clothes, and started to cry again, but only very quietly, as though he didn’t want Dean to hear.

“Cas?”

Cas sniffed. “Yeah?”

“You going to come back to bed?”

Cas drew a shuddery breath. He ran his hands through his hair.  “In a minute.” He got to his feet and took two steps towards the door, then changed his mind. He went to the bathroom, loudly blew his nose, and splashed his face with water. He turned out the light. Dean squinted to try and make out Cas’ expression when he came back into the room. He felt the mattress dip and turned in that direction. Cas lay down, facing him. Dean stroked the side of his face.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” Cas answered shakily. “Just. Feelings.” He laughed quietly for a few seconds and stopped.

“Feelings. Bleurgh,” Dean agreed.

“Sorry I’m so crazy,” Cas croaked.

“Nah. It’s okay.”

Cas sighed and rolled over. “You don’t have to stay.”

Dean shifted uncomfortably. “I want to.”

“’M going to be hungover tomorrow,” Cas yawned.

“I’ll make you breakfast,” Dean promised. Cas didn’t reply. Leaning up on his elbow, he guessed that it was probably because he’d fallen asleep. Dean brushed a wisp of hair across his forehead. Yeah, he was definitely sleeping. His lips were slightly parted. Every breath he drew whistled faintly past his teeth, little baby snores. Last time Dean had seen Cas sleeping, it had been in a hospital bed. Those months were a tangled mess in Dean’s memory. He couldn’t unpick beautiful, straight-talking Cas from shaking, throwing up everywhere, dying right in front of Dean’s eyes Cas.

What was this Cas, sleeping next to him? Dean was scared to touch him again for fear of waking him, though he seemed dead to the world already. He stared at Cas’ arms, at the careful inked lines. He found Jimmy’s initials again and grimaced. What had he done to this glorious creature?

Cas stirred, frowning, and curled towards Dean, turning his arm to expose the crook of his elbow. Dean stared at the tattoos and they seemed to wriggle apart until he could see the marred skin underneath them. There were the two old, familiar scars Cas used to hide with leather bands. Beside them were newer, shinier ones. The ink bled strangely over them, in little thin lines like the snapped ends of needles. They snaked all the way to his elbows. Too big to hide with bracelets.

Dean moved away, lying stiffly in the bed. He was trembling and he wouldn’t admit to himself that he was crying. Oh, _Cas_.

“Mm,” Cas sighed, inching towards Dean. When his hand grazed Dean’s head, he woke with a little gasp. “Baz?”

Dean’s heart sank a little. “No, it’s Dean.”

“Dean?” Cas asked, his voice filled with wonder. “Oh, _oh_.” He shuffled nearer, planting a kiss on Dean’s cheek. “Oh, no. Don’t cry,” Cas urged, sleepily. “Sometimes… Balthazar stays over…” Cas sounded half asleep again already. “He’s good to me… makes sure I’m… not dying.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t good to you,” Dean whispered, winding his arms around Cas carefully.

“Don’t worry… I still love you,” Cas sighed.

Dean went hot all over again. “You love me?”

“Mm hmm. Now, go sleep, kay?”

Dean squeezed his eyes shut and held onto Cas tight. There was no way he’d be able to walk away now, not that he’d ever stood a chance, really. Not that walking away had ever really been a part of his plan. He was fucked. He was totally, completely fucked.


	25. The Bottom of the Pond

Cas woke with a start, sitting bolt upright in his bed. Chest heaving, blinking madly, he peered around the room. There was sweat cooling fast on his skin. He was at home. He was in his apartment in Chicago. It was alright. As layers of tension peeled away, his head began to throb. Powerful painkillers did not mix well with alcohol. He flopped back down against the pillows, groaning.

“Cas? You okay?” Dean asked sleepily.

“Oh shit!” Cas barked, jumping up again.

Dean was frowning up at him from the other side of the bed. Cas’ heart was pounding wildly in his chest. Memories of the night before trickled back to him, prompted by the long purple-red lines down Dean’s back. Dean pushed himself upright, his short hair spikey on one side and completely flattened on the other. “What’s wrong?”

Cas exhaled a long, shaky breath and shook his head. “Nothing. I’m fine.” Cas’ body ached. His mouth was fuzzy and sweet. He grabbed the half-empty glass of water from his bedside table. Dean was watching him, bleary eyed.

“What time is it?”

Cas looked at the clock. “Seven thirty.”

Dean groaned. “So early.”

“Go back to sleep,” Cas urged him.

Dean hummed, yawning, and sank back down onto the mattress with closed eyes. Dean, in Cas’ bed. His stomach was doing somersaults. He wasn’t sure if he was pleased or terrified. Experimentally, he closed his eyes and opened them wide again. Dean didn’t disappear. Cas reached out to him slowly, fingers shaking, and stroked one of the scratches down his back. Dean sighed contentedly and Cas’ breath hitched. He withdrew his hand. Real, touchable, complete.

Why now? The question had been chasing itself round Cas’ head for days. They’d lived in the same city for well over a year, apparently. Why did it take until now for them to run into one another? Tiredly, Cas smeared his palms over his face. He wanted to lay back down as Dean had and let sleep bundle him up again, but he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to. He could hear the faint tinkle of the alarm on his phone diligently ringing somewhere else in the house. Cas felt a bizarre twinge of guilt for letting it ring for half an hour unattended to. It was a bad idea to leave it any longer.

Maybe Dean was like the fate’s relief for him. The world gave him myeloma and he was supposed to use Dean as the sugar to make lemonade. He could feel his heart throbbing tiredly in his chest, pumping betrayal all through his body. He knew what was going to happen this time, because he made the mistake of asking someone how it was going to be. He had thought, sincerely, that he wanted to know the answer. He didn’t. Oh, _fuck_ , he wished he didn’t know. The nurse had said something about systems shutting down. Like he was an outdated computer. Time for an upgrade. Parts exchange wasn’t an option any more. The pieces were worth more than all of Cas put together.

He had tried very hard (though without much enthusiasm) not to text Dean again. He shouldn’t have even given Dean his number, if he was being honest with himself. It wasn’t going to either of them any good. No. Especially not Dean.

With a resigned huff, Cas got out of bed and grabbed his silk robe from the top of the nearest pile of clothes. A lump in his throat, he glanced back at Dean, sprawled beneath the covers, sleeping soundly. He’d seen the state of the place. He hadn’t commented on it, though, but it would be impossible to know if that was because he didn’t care or notice, or because he was too afraid to bring it up, without asking him directly. Cas kneaded his temple. There was no way he was going to be the one to say anything about that.

At least Dean hadn’t seen the kitchen. He’d swept most of the broken crockery aside but he still picked his way very carefully across the tiles in his bare feet. He saw the remnants of his favorite mug amongst the shards in the corner and felt a pang of regret. He’d very seriously considered burning the whole place down. He couldn’t explain the feeling afterwards. The closest he got when he tried was that it was like the whole world was suffocating him, and the apartment was the closest he could access.

He opened the cabinet by the sink, but half of his pills were gone. Panic began to rise in the back of Cas’ throat, sour and dry. _Think, Castiel!_ “What did you do the last time you took a dose?” he muttered to himself softly. “Come on, fucker, what were you doing?” He slammed the cupboard shut. “You were getting ready… for what? For _what_?” He squeezed his eyes shut. “Oh! Dean. To go out and meet Dean. Right.” He’d left them in his coat pockets. His coat. God, where had he left it? Trailing back into the living room Cas wracked his brain.

His coat was in a heap in the corner, his pills stacked on top of it, bunch of keys tossed onto the floor nearby. He counted them out. Five. He was missing one. Frowning, he reviewed the names on each of the boxes. Oh, excellent. The anti-depressants. Of course those would be the ones he’d leave behind. He should have listened to Balthazar when he said taking the whole box out was a bad idea. He hated cutting up blister packs, though. He searched around in the pockets of his coat but he couldn’t find them anywhere. His heart was racing now. He felt sick. Stumbling to his feet, he returned to the kitchen and checked the cupboard, as though he might have missed it.

This was just like him, wasn’t it, to leave things behind. Shouldn’t have bothered to take them anyway. What was he expecting to happen? As if anyone would take him home with them. As if they could stand to touch him. What would they have thought of him, anyway, carrying an entire pharmacy around like that?

Cas stopped by the door to the bedroom, peering in the slight raise in the duvet where Dean had burrowed under it. He gripped the doorframe, taking a deep breath. Someone _had_ come home with him. It wasn’t so bad. He just needed to find his jeans, and it would be fine. He got down on his hands and knees and searched around for what he’d been wearing the day before. His wallet was in his pocket, and that was it. Nothing else. He turned them inside out just to be sure. No. Nothing. A little strangled sound escaped his lips.

“Cas?” Dean asked.

Cas glanced over. Dean had moved to the edge of the bed. He was watching him.

“You lost something?”

“No. Doesn’t matter,” Cas croaked. His mouth was so dry. He swallowed and it burned.

“Last night you dropped a box of pills, if that’s what you’re looking for,” Dean mumbled.

Cas screwed up his face. “Where?”

“My jeans.”

Cas scanned the clothes until he spotted a pair of jeans that were vaguely unfamiliar. He grabbed them and searched. He scattered keys, receipts and loose change onto the carpet before finding the box of citalopram, slightly squashed. The wave of relief was so strong it made him feel dizzy.

“What’s going on?”

Cas heaved himself up off the ground, wavering a little as the blood rushed to his head. “I’ll… I’ll be in the other room.”

He wandered back to the living room, at his little nest of pills on his coat. He took them one by one, swallowing them dry, ignoring the burn of them scraping past his ragged throat. He slumped against the arm of the sofa and closed his eyes. He took a deep breath, counting to ten in his head, and breathed out, chasing the numbers back down to zero, forming their shapes silently with his lips. He wasn’t sure if it had helped or not, but his therapist was always banging on about trying relaxation techniques if he thought he was going to have a Moment.

“Lot of meds, huh?” Dean asked.

Cas jerked his chin in the direction of his force, snapping his eyes wide open. Dean was dressed, his clothes crumpled from their night on the carpet. Cas didn’t ask how long he’d been standing there. It was clear from his question that he’d seen enough. It didn’t matter. Dean would leave now he’d got Cas properly out his system. That’s what the night before had been, hadn’t it? Getting each other out. A parting fuck. It would be easier for both of them if Dean just left, wouldn’t it. Saved the mess of tangling into each other again. Dean would only bail out when things got too messy. It was a fair thing to do. Cas wouldn’t begrudge him his right to it, but he would insist that he do it now, rather than later. Before he started to rely on him again.

So, Cas forced himself to smile. “I’m fine.”

Dean dipped his head. “Are you, though?”

Cas pursed his lips.

“You really going to do this, Cas?”

“Yes.”

“Fuck you, then,” Dean sighed.

“Stop being so dramatic,” Cas muttered.

Dean’s expression darkened. Cas wondered if he’d kill someone, if he had to. “Look, Cas. I know you.”

“Oh?”

A wild flash of shock and anger. Dean shook his head. “I do.” Yes, Cas concluded. He could.

Cas didn’t know what he wanted to say anymore. He felt like he’d run out of words. He looked expectantly at the carpet, as if it might be so kind as to burst into flames and swallow him.

“Why’d you bother seeing me if you were just going to shut me out again?”

“Shut you out,” Cas echoed, eyebrows shooting up in shock at the sound of his own voice. He could still speak, after all.

“You haven’t changed a bit, have you?”

Cas half smiled, derisive. “It’s been six years. I’m completely different.”

“Except you’re not!” Dean yelled. He strode across the room. “Yeah, you’ve got hair and you don’t look like you’re going to snap if I kiss you too hard, but you’re exactly the same; trying to act like you’re fine and doing a really shitty job of it.”

Cas’ lips trembled as he searched for direction to speak. Finally, a single mumbled ‘no’ toppled out of him and he quivered. He’d let himself do it again. He’d lured Dean close under false pretenses, that he was happy, that he was coping, that he was healthy as a horse. It was going to happen again, because Cas couldn’t hide, and he couldn’t run. Dean was going to find out and when he did, eventually, he was going to leave again. Cas ran a hand through his hair, dragging his nails over his scalp and gritting his teeth.

Dean crouched down beside Cas and tentatively looped his arms around him. Cas whimpered and threw his arms round Dean’s chest to return the hug.

“ _Oh_.” Cas clutched the back of Dean’s shirt. “I’m s-sorry.”

“Shut up.” Dean squeezed him back.

“I lied to you,” Cas spluttered.

“What?” Dean pulled away.

Cas slumped, hiding behind his tattooed arms. “I’m sorry.”

“No, Cas.” Dean put a hand on Cas’ neck. “Come on. Stop it.”

“I’m sick.”

“No, you’re not,” Dean tried to pry Cas’ hands away but failed. “Look at me.”

“No.”

“Cas,” Dean protested meekly. “C’mon. Meet me half way.”

“You’re just going to run off again.”

Cas couldn’t see the horror on Dean’s face but he heard a sharp intake of breath that was only just short of a yelp of pain. “I wouldn’t.”

“You said that before,” Cas whispered, accusatory.

Dean stopped trying to get Cas to move his hands. Cas knotted his fingers tightly into his own hair.

“Wait,” Dean said, with quiet significance. “You said… you’re sick.”

Cas could feel heat in his veins, pulsing through his whole body, shock and terror and fear and something awful and more explicit. He felt exactly like he had after Gabe had told him Dean had gone. Like someone had just ripped out all of his organs. He could scream. He could feel it rising in him. He could scream and tear things and smash things against the walls, but really, what did he have left to ruin? It hadn’t helped the other day, it probably wouldn’t help now. The acid bubbling through him tried to convince him otherwise.

“You don’t mean you’re… you’re actually sick?” The words were barely more than a whisper. Dean put a hand on Cas’ shoulder. “Cas. You’re okay, right?” Dean’s voice cracked and wavered and all the fight went of Cas’ body and he slithered forwards onto the carpet, limp arms falling to his sides.

He had stayed in bed for three weeks when he found out. He’d been convinced he was going to die right then. He swore he could feel the life trickling out of him. He didn’t say a word to anyone. He didn’t cry. He’s sure he didn’t even sleep. He was just waiting. And waiting. And waiting.

Balthazar had come in one evening and handed him a sheet of paper. A benefit for the oncology ward at the hospital. Cas wasn’t sure how he found out about stuff like that, he could only guess that his fresh millions from his extremely successful productions were secretly finding their way into the hospital trust’s bank accounts. It wasn’t the kind of thing Balthazar would admit to, especially not to Cas.

Cas, groggy and silent, and not even looked at the paper. Balthazar cleared his throat and read, loudly, the list of attendees. “… and grass-roots staff members: Trauma Surgeon Anna Feather and EMT Dean Winchester.”

Dean Winchester. The words, over several days, began to fill Cas up. Imagine what it would be like to talk to him again. Imagine just _seeing_ him. He wanted to know what that be like. All those years, not knowing if he was alright. If he was attending benefits he was obviously coping. More than coping. Seeing him would be good, wouldn’t it?

“Cas,” Dean said softly, rubbing a hand gently down Cas’ spine. “Talk to me. Please.” He pulled at Cas’ shoulder and he rolled like a dead thing onto his back. Dean was looking down at him, green eyes ringed red. He looked like he was seeing something more than Cas felt he could be. He’d always looked at Cas like that, like he could see straight through Cas’s scarred and inked-up skin, past the myeloma, past his bones, even the ones held together with screws and plates, right to whatever made up his soul. What was the point of anything if there was nobody around you that could see you like that?

It hit him then, with the full force of a dam bursting. This was it. It was really, really real. Cas was going to stop, and there wouldn’t be anything left for Dean to see when he looked for the truth trapped inside of him. It’d be gone. And then… and then nothing.

Cas could feel the blood in his fingers, and he didn’t think about the cancer it was taking with it, he just thought about the redness and the life-ness of it. He was alive still, under the fog and through all the layers. And Dean, too. He was there. Cas smiled. He reached up and dusted tears from Dean’s cheeks. “Sorry for this,” Cas whispered, smiling.

“What do you mean?”

“I.” Cas’ throat sealed shut. “I shouldn’t have let you get involved again. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Cas.” Dean sounded like someone was rolling his toes between wooden dowels. “I have been a wreck. The whole fucking time.”

Cas closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “It’s going to happen.”

“What is?”

“I’m going to die.”

“So am I,” Dean said with resounding conviction.

Cas sat up. They were facing opposite ways, their shoulders touching. Dean was watching Cas, waiting for Cas to say something, but he was already sick of explaining this to him. He got up, wavering slightly, and trailed slowly to the baby grand piano in the corner. It overlooked the river, a beached whale staring out towards the sea. Cas lifted the case and spread his fingers over the keys. They felt solid under his fingers. He’d been playing a lot, since he started getting out of bed again. He played the first few bars of _Clair de Lune_ , and then Dean joined him on the velvet covered stool and he stopped, smiling.

“You’re freaking me out,” Dean said quietly.

“I go a bit weird sometimes,” Cas replied. His voice was thin and empty, like someone had drawn the outlines of the words but forgotten to color them in. He played something else, little chords, floating free. Wild music he didn’t want to capture. Cas glanced at Dean. He had a weird expression, like he might start crying again. He noticed Cas was looking at him and gulped.

“How long have you been playing piano?”

“Since I was a kid.” Cas played the start of funeral march and Dean grabbed his wrist, the sensation of his fingers disappearing over his scars and catching the breath inside of him.

“Cas.”

Cas turned to him. “Dean.”

A little frown creased the space between Dean’s eyebrows, then he half-shrugged, leaning forwards and pressing his lips to Cas’. Cas hummed contentedly, elbow knocking middle C as he wound his arms around Dean’s neck. Sometimes Cas looked in the mirror and saw nobody. Sometimes he sat in a room full of people and they were all very, very far away. Closeness and conversation made him ache. Touching made him crumble into ash. Dean kissed him, and he stayed where he was, pulled gently half into Dean’s lap.

Sometimes Cas had dreams that Dean was there, and they were holding each other, back when they were twenty two and in love. He dreamed about moments where the sun shone through the windows and caught in Dean’s hair and made him light up. He dreamed about dancing, about singing, about falling asleep in his arms.

He was not twenty two, and neither was Dean. The sky was grey. The kiss was not so gentle Cas could barely feel it. It was ragged and occasionally the force of it hurt. Cas didn’t care. He realized how very little he cared about anything. He could feel Dean’s heart pounding, separated from his own by silk and cotton and two sternums’ worth of bone. Alive, and kissing Dean Winchester. Synonyms.


	26. Don't You Want Me?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Graphic medical stuff.

Fists against the door sounded like thunder from the couch in Dean’s poor excuse for a living room. He sat up, coat rustle. “I swear to god, Dean, if you don’t open this door right know I’m going to kick it down,” Sam yelled, his voice softened through the wood.

“It’s three in the morning!” Dean cried back, stumbling to his feet.

“Your shift finished at two,” Sam said with breathless irritation as Dean opened the door, rubbing his eyes. “I’ve been calling you all day. What the hell happened yesterday? You said you’d call me as soon as you got home.”

Dean looked around the flat and when he turned back, his brothers face was gaunt with understanding. “You didn’t get home.”

“I was _just_ dozing off…”

“Is that a hickey on your neck?” Sam asked, scandalized.

Dean covered the tender skin with his palm. “So what if it is?”

Sam groaned. “Dean. You weren’t supposed to go and fuck him! That’s not what it’s about!”

“Oh, and I suppose you’re going to tell me what it _is_ about,” Dean snapped sourly.

Sam stalked to the middle of the room, shaking his head. “Christ. This is like Bella all over again.”

“No it is _not._ ” Dean slammed the door shut.

“I thought you wanted closure!”

“I wanted _Cas_ ,” Dean corrected.

Sam scowled. “Fuck, Dean.” Hands on his hips, he shook his head. “You really don’t have a grip on reality, do you?”

Dean shook his head and looked at the grubby carpet.

Sam sighed. “So.”

Dean looked up. “So what?”

“How was it?” Sam asked this with such a bitchy expression and begrudging tone that Dean had to laugh or risk popping a lung in effort not to, then he remembered that Sam asked him a question, and it’s one he doesn’t want to answer because it’s too complicated. Everything with Cas was always so fucking complicated, but Dean only ever realised this when he wasn’t around. When Cas was there it was the easiest thing in the world.

“Dean?” Sam’s sudden change in tone made Dean worry what his expression was like. His mother had always called him her little open book. He never minded so much before.

“We went ice skating,” Dean managed with a shrug.

Sam frowned. “You and Cas?”

“Yeah. It was really nice.” Dean smiled wryly. There we go, would you look at that? The treacherous question, answered without a lie. Sidestepped a little, sure, but Dean could live with that.

“You’re weird.” Sam sighed and yawned.

“I can’t believe you stormed my apartment in the middle of the night.”

“I thought you might have been dead.” Sam smiled as he spoke but there was an edge to his words that conveyed very real concern.

“No luck yet.” Dean grinned at him, shoving his hands into the pockets of his coat and thus reminding himself that he was still wearing his coat. “You want a beer or something?”

Sam looked at Dean like he’d just asked if he wanted to use his dirty junk needle, and rolled his eyes. “Alright.”

Dean trudged to the kitchen and returned with two open bottles clinking in his hand. He passed one to his brother and sipped the other.

“There’s something you’re not telling me,” Sam concluded.

Dean shrugged. They drank their beers, and Sam fell asleep on the couch, and Dean went to bed and lay on his back and looked at his picture of Cas. He thought of all the times he’d laid there and done that, picking the shape of his pale skin from the grey haze behind him. The image looked old and took Cas back in time to the fifties or the forties, a budding star, like Buddy Holly or Frank Sinatra or something. He wasn’t like that in real life. He sometimes had that expression, between smiling and biting his lip, but it changed. He moved, he breathed. He was more than Dean could have remembered him as. How often had he stared at that poster and dreamed he could feel Cas’ hands on his skin?

He felt punished. There were little white veins all over the poster, creases from tearing it down and crumpling it in his hands. It was ruined. The light hit it and caught in different places, washing out his black and white eyes and his fingers, curled around the neck of his guitar.

He tracked through what Cas had said to him. _I’m sick. I’m going to die._ That could mean anything, though. Dean knew Cas, didn’t he? He knew Cas could be melodramatic. What a cruel turn of fate that it would be, for them to find each other again, now. Something in Dean’s chest stirred. He knew there, deep down, that Cas wasn’t exaggerating. He rolled onto his side, turning his back on the poster. It didn’t mean as much to him as he’d thought.

 

Cas woke up and felt the waves of panic in his body struggling to recede. It was always like that at the moment, like his brain and his heart couldn’t quite cope with his decision to grasp toward consciousness. He sat up and looked around his dark bedroom. He wondered what time it was. The winter’s funny like that, makes you think it’s still night time when really you should be getting out of bed. The clock on his wall said it was half past four. He got out of bed anyway.

It was funny that since he’d started getting up and moving again, he’d not felt so ill anymore. He creaked, he knew that if he stopped taking his pills, he would ache all over. He touched everything that he passed; the wall; the door frame; the handle; the table. He stood by the big window and looked down at the shadowy water, thinking about it clinging to his skin. It’d be so cold it would suck all the air out of him.

He trailed into the kitchen and yelped as sharp pain shot from his foot all the way up between his ears. He reached down and found a shard of glass stuck in the soft skin where his second toe joined onto his foot. Blood was welling up around it, thick and black in the dark. Cas pulled the shard free and threw it in the sink. He left poppies on the tiles as he walked to the cupboard. He took out a jar of Nutella and grabbed a spoon from the top of the dishwasher. He wanted to sit down but he was suddenly afraid to walk across the kitchen in the dark, and the light was all the way over by the door. Instead, he hauled himself up onto the counter and sat there, next to the fridge, listening to it hum in that low, constant way that fridges hum.

He closed his eyes. Dean said he would come back.

Without really thinking about it he got down off the counter and grabbed a the magnetic pen off the fridge. He squatted in front of the cabinets and wrote. _See Dean again._ He sat back, staring at the words. He’s not sure why he wrote them. He smudged the last word with his fingers and it blurred, like he was looking at it through the white of an egg.

“Cas? Come on, buddy.”

Balthazar. Balthazar? Cas opened his eyes. He was being bundled against the kitchen cabinets. It was light. He was filled up with it. “Oh, thank fuck.” Baz slumped down onto the crumbly floor, crockery pieces grinding together like teeth. “You scared the shit out of me.”

“Must have fallen asleep,” Cas sighed. His head was throbbing. He thought he might be bleeding.

“You look pretty beat. How was your date?”

“My date?”

“Dean?” Balthazar prompted helpfully.

Cas body heated up right to his fingers and he smiled. “It was really great.”

“Your bedroom smells of sex.”

Cas snorted. “Sorry, Baz.”

Balthazar sighed. “S’alright. Bout time you were getting some.” His voice was thin. Cas wondered if maybe he was in love with him. The thought made him want to cry, but he didn’t. “Come on. You got fun shit to do this morning.”

Cas groaned and covered his face with his hands. It had been eighty three days since he got his doctor to agree ‘no more, now’. Six kinds of chemo, radiotherapy, systematic arsenic poisoning. No more, now. Seven hundred and two days since he found out the cancer was back. Six hundred and ninety since he drew new lines into his arms. Three hundred since his new tattoos. Christmas was in seventeen days, Easter in a hundred and ten.

“What are you doing?”

Cas dropped his arms. “Counting.”

Baz brushed the hair across Cas’ forehead. “Counting what?”

“How long until Easter.”

Baz smiled. “How about the fourth of July?”

“Hundred and seventy six,” Cas answered.

“You going to be there?”

He wanted summer. He wanted warm air and green leaves on the trees in the park. “Yeah.”

“Well.” Baz looked dramatically at his watch. “You got a bone marrow aspiration in twenty two minutes and you’re still not dressed.”

“I can go in my pyjamas,” he mumbled unenthusiastically.

“Cassie,” Baz huffed. “You made me promise.”

Cas groaned. “I take it back.”

“You don’t. You said-”

“I know what I said Baz.”

“- ‘don’t ever let me mope about in my pyjamas like some self-pitying prick’.”

“I don’t care.”

“Come on, Cas. Get dressed.”

“I don’t want to!” Cas yelled. He slumped his head back against the cabinets.

Baz pursed his lips. He looked at anything other than Cas’ face. Cas stared at him, burning and bitter for no real reason. He spotted something over Cas shoulder and frowned. “’See Dean again’?”

Cas closed his eyes. “I don’t know. I wanted to write it down.”

“Don’t… don’t get drawn into relying on him again,” Baz said, very quietly. He looked very small all of a sudden, in Cas’ broken kitchen, his blonde hair in messy tufts sticking in all directions. Cas reached and took one of his hands, resting limply in his lap.

“I just want to see him, that’s all.”

Baz looked up. His eyes were swimming, but he didn’t let any tears spill down his cheeks. He was good like that, not like Gabriel or his mom. They could barely speak to him without crying. It was awful. He had to send them away, because he couldn’t stand to see what he was doing to them. It wasn’t as if it was a thing he could fix or stop. Some people can deal with it enough to function, and others can’t. Cas himself seemed to be stuck between these poles. He swung one way or another day to day. Baz, though. He could always cope.

Cas heaved himself up off the floor and waited a while for his body to adjust to his new position, then went and got dressed. He pulled on his jeans, but left his soft pyjama shirt on under his jumper. He would meet Baz (and himself) halfway. When he emerged, Baz was leaning against the piano. He saw Cas and smiled. “You’re going to be late.”

“They’re _always_ late,” Cas pointed out.

In the car, Balthazar put _Queen_ on and sang loudly and out of tune and Cas laughed at him. At the hospital, Cas walked up to oncology alone. It was where he drew the line. Baz could give him lists and visit him, but Cas wouldn’t allow him to sit in for any procedures. Not even chemo.

This was part of the reason for his move to the city. Baz loved it there, and he kept threatening to move back to New England. He’d long sold his crappy flat there, so whenever Cas had treatment, he’d stay with him in the big house where he’d lived with Gabe for so long. Cas was grateful, but despite Balthazar’s incredible capacity for keeping calm, Cas felt crowded by him. If he heard Cas puking in the night he’d come and sit on the lip of the bath, afraid to overstep his mark. Cas had nightmares where he was alone on an island or lost in an abandoned city. Balthazar would come into his room and turn on the light and bring him a glass of water, asking softly, quietly, if he was going to be okay.

“Castiel Milton?” the receptionist in oncology asked.

“That’s me.”

“You can go right through to-”

“Room Three. I got it,” he told her with a smile. He waved his appointment card at her and walked away.

The plastic floor squeaked under his shoes. Behind a curtain in room three, he pulled off his jumper and his pyjama top and slid back out of his jeans. He felt a little flare of irritation that he’d let himself be harassed into getting dressed when he knew he’d have to strip off for this anyway. Hospital gowns all smell too clean.

He lay on his side on the padded table, elevated a foot too high from the floor. There was a print of Van Gogh’s Sunflowers framed on the wall, hung very slightly crooked. He stared at the muted colors, his hands under his chin, clasped tightly. “Deep breath. There’s going to be a pinch.” A pinch. Cas could not be fooled. He was no stranger to biopsy needles; long metal sticks with plastic handles on the end so they could be forced and driven into places that ought to be inaccessible.

Cas stared at the petals and tried to breathe. He felt the needle break his skin, felt his heart speed up in protest. He clenched his fingers tighter, curling his nails into the backs of his hands. The sickening shove of metal into bone, the nurse’s hand on his hip to keep him steady as she turned the needle’s handle. Cas thought of crankshafts and pneumatic drills.

“Deep breath,” the nurse urged again, as though it might help. Cas thought about swearing at her but he really couldn’t force any air in or out of his lungs.  Waves rolled out from his hip, static heat churning through his bones. The tension in his abdomen was making him nauseas. He unclasped his hands and gripped the edge of the bed instead. The black plastic covering puckered under the heel of his palm. “Okay, Castiel?” The words rippled through to him just barely. “Nearly done now.” He could feel a film of sweat breaking cold all over him. The nurse withdrew the needle, the tactile equivalent to nails on a chalkboard. “All done. Breathe for me, Castiel.” A quivering breath shook itself free. He lay there, dizzy, as they cleaned his hip and covered up the new hole in him.

“You can sit up now,” the nurse told him. He still hadn’t let go of the edge of the bed. It took him a few moments to unpeel his fingers and force himself upright. “You look a little peaky.”

“Mph,” Cas replied.

“You have lovely tattoos.” She was trying to calm him down. Cas closed his eyes. “Especially the wings.”

“Thanks.” Cas stood up, ignoring the slight tingling in the leg below the biopsy, and disappeared behind the curtain again. He bundled himself back into his layers, finally winding his scarf around his neck. He wished he was at home in bed already, walking back down through the hospital in a daze, hands in his pockets. He stopped now and then, looking at posters or people that caught his eye, until he got down to the lobby. He sat in one of the soft chairs near the café and leaned his head against the wall.

“Cas?” Dean sounded like he was smiling. Cas turned, and he was. “Hey. Everything alright?”

“Bone marrow biopsy,” he rasped. Dean looks stricken, so Cas smiled. “It’s fine. I’ll be fine in a minute.”

“You need a ride home?”

Cas looks at his phone screen. Balthazar will be waiting to be summoned back to him. Dean was smiling again, although more uncertainly than before. “That’d be nice.”

Dean offered Cas a hand to pull him to his feet. They locked eyes, then both diverted their gazes to the floor. The question darted in the air between them; were they together or not? Dean didn’t drop Cas’ hand. Cas didn’t let go either.

Outside the front of the hospital, Dean groans. “Shit. I wasn’t thinking. My car’s back at my place.”

Cas’ hip ached. He didn’t want to let go of Dean’s hand. “You said you didn’t live far from here.”

Dean considered this for a moment. “It’s like three hundred yards from the edge of the parking lot. Can you make it?”

Cas closed his eyes for a moment and breathed. “Yes. I’ll be fine.”

They walked past the gleaming cars. Cas realized that he’d not put on a coat that morning. The chill bit through his clothes and made him shiver. They puffed out steam like old trains as they went, fogging the air and then stepping through it. Dean blew bigger clouds than Cas did. Cas stole a glance at him, walking on with his head angled towards the sidewalk. The end of his nose was slightly pink. It made his eyes look greener.

“How was work?” Cas asked.

Dean looked startled to be addressed. A flood of pink warmed his features and his leafy eyes positively glowed. “Oh. It was fine. There was a crash on the interstate.”

Cas frowned. “That’s awful.”

“Saved a kid, pulled her out of the back of this SUV. The front of it was completely accordianed.”

Cas could picture it, the scars riven into the tarmac by splintered metal. The shattered glass twinkling like dew. Blood, red and heavy, splattered on the roadside and gathering in slightly steaming lakes, marooning limp hands and amputated wing-mirrors.

“How was the biopsy?” Dean asked cautiously.

“Hurt.” Cas’ voice felt different. His chest still felt tight. Dean squeezed his fingers tighter and reminded him to breathe again, and he shivered. They stopped by a familiar sleek black car.

“This is us,” Dean announced.

A lump formed in Cas’ throat. Dean would take him home, and then he’d leave. He didn’t want to be alone in his apartment. If he called Baz, he’d come and sit with him, but in ways that was worse. Dean’s warm, healthy hand in his felt as though it was anchoring him in reality. It was the same hand he’d used to grip the edge of the treatment table. Suddenly, absurdly, Cas thought it would be nice if next time, Dean would be there to hold his hand instead. He tried to quash this thought, peering around at the apartment blocks looming over them. “Which one do you live in?”

Dean pointed to the third floor of the building across the street. “There.”

“Is it nice?”

Dean shrugged. “It’s alright.”

“Can I come inside?”

Dean looked stumped. He had his keys in his hand. Studying Cas’ expression, a slow smile spread across his face. “Yeah. Alright.”

So they crossed the street and Dean held the door open to let Cas pass in front of him. They huddled into the rickety elevator and Dean pressed the buttons with his free hand. Cas watched and when Dean looked up, he laughed, and Cas giggled too. Dean unlocked his door and let it swing open. Cas studied him, waiting in the hall. He looked uncertain again. “What?”

Dean shook his head. “Just. You.”

Cas smiled and dipped his head. He wandered inside, as though he’d stumbled upon the apartment himself, by accident. The living room was small. There was a small couch with a red blanket draped over it, cushions bundled in one corner as though someone had slept there the night before. There was a coffee table crowded with empty bottles and cans, a large plate that was serving as a gigantic ashtray. Empty mugs were scattered here and there.  The TV was stood on top of a pile of old books. There was an open box in the corner, over flowing with DVDs.

Dean looked embarrassed. “I still haven’t finished unpacking,” he explained.

Cas nodded. He traced the edges of the light switch. “When’d you move in?”

“September,” Dean mumbled. “Five years ago.”

Cas frowned and peered up. “You’ve been living out of boxes that long?”

Dean shrugged. “Was supposed to be temporary. You want something to drink?”

Cas crossed the room and brushed his thumb over Dean’s cheekbone. He kissed him softly, and then wobbled. Dean caught him. “You alright?”

“I need to sit down,” Cas admitted. He allowed himself to be guided backwards and eased down onto the couch.

“You alright?” Dean asked again.

Cas nodded. “Just dizzy.”

Dean touched Cas’ throat, monitoring his pulse. “Hmm. I’ll get you some water.”

He left and Cas closed his eyes. When he opened them again the room had titled sideways. He was slumped over the arm of the sofa. He blinked furiously. Dean handed him a glass. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah.”

Dean cleared space and sat opposite Cas on the coffee table. “You normally get dizzy after biopsies?” Dean’s tone wavered. He was scared.

Cas sighed and sat up, sipping the drink. “No. It’s been a while since I had a transfusion. I get anaemic. It makes me faint.”

Dean nodded, gulping.

“I wore myself out with you,” Cas confessed, smiling.

Dean went scarlet. “Is that… that doesn’t seem like it’s something you should do.”

“Why not?”

Dean shrugged.

Cas took a deep breath. “I can either sit around a mope about my life ending, or I can go out and live it.”

Dean looked down at the floor between his feet. Silence swelled like a fat balloon between them. Cas wanted to burst it between his palms.

“After the transplant I was in remission for three and a half years.”

Dean winced as though Cas had stuck a knife between his ribs. 

“You know most people with myeloma don’t live that long?”

Dean shook his head. He had a drawn expression, like he was concentrating very hard. It was strange. Cas had tried so hard, before, to keep his illness a secret. It had been so long now that there hardly seemed to be any point. If he wanted Dean back (which he did, he realised with sudden, nauseating force) then he would have to know the truth, because it wasn’t about risk factors or treatment plans anymore. Cas was winding down. _Shutting down._ It was alright for the moment. You’d never know he was sick, looking at him now. His hair had started to grow back again. They’d taken out his tubes. Apart from red patches of dry skin on the softness of his belly and the undersides of his arms, outwardly, he looked fine.

“I’m dying,” Cas said, with a flare of irritation. The word rang with clear finality. Dean stared furiously at a single patch of carpet, a little crease between his eyebrows. “There’s nothing they can do.”

“Okay,” Dean squeaked. All the scarlet from his cheeks was gone and he looked gaunt. Cas set his glass of water on the floor and reached over, taking Dean’s hands in his.

“It’s alright,” Cas whispered.

Dean whimpered, shaking his head. “No it fucking isn’t.” These words came out as one, a solid line of mumbled noise. He grasped Cas’ fingers tight like someone was shoving a twenty five millimeter tube of metal into his iliac crest. “How- how long do you. Do you have?” Dean’s words jumped around as his diaphragm twitched, fighting to sob.

“Nobody will tell me. I don’t think they know.”

“ _Fuck_.” Dean let go of Cas abruptly and got to his feet. He stood by the window, one hand on his hip, the other over his eyes. Cas’ fingers buzzed as blood rushed back into them.

“I’m okay for the moment. It’s stayed the same for quite a while.”

“It?” Dean spat miserably.

“The myeloma. It’s been stable for a while.”

Dean threw his head back. His shoulders bobbed up and down. He was crying but he didn’t want to admit it to himself. “I’ve wasted so much time,” he hissed miserably. He turned around, eyes blazing and streaming tears down his face. “I’ve been such a fucking idiot Cas.” He stumbled back towards the couch. Cas stood, opening his arms slightly to receive him. Dean staggered close and grabbed a fistful of Cas’ jumper. “I’m such a fucking useless piece of _shit._ ”

Cas put his hands on Dean’s shoulders. “You’re not.”

“I am!” Dean shrieked. He slid miserably down to his knees, his face pressed against Cas’ stomach. Cas carded his fingers gently through his hair. Dean cried bitterly, unashamed.

“Shush,” Cas whispered. “Breathe.”

Dean drew a massive, trembling breath. “I’m so sorry,” he whined on the exhale. “I’m so s-sorry.”

Cas sat back down, Dean’s head now in his lap. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

Dean sat up and pulled away. He looked at Cas incredulously. “Are you kidding me?”

Cas looked away.

“Cas. I fucking. I walked out on you! I left you!”

“I was sick.”

“I didn’t.” Dean stopped. He stared at Cas, shaking his head. “I didn’t leave because you were sick, Cas.”

“You slept with Jimmy,” Cas answered for him.

Dean slumped against the coffee table. “You. You knew?”

“Yes.”

Dean’s eyes widened. “Why didn’t you come after me!”

“My immune system was fucked and my parents were the ones calling all the shots. I couldn’t have made it out of that hospital without help, and there was nobody around willing to give it. Even if I had gone after you, where would I have looked?”

Dean shook his head. “You’re lying.”

“Jimmy didn’t tell me until after he’d given me his kidney. The guilt was eating him up. Gabe went off the wall when he said it. He thought it would be _kinder_ if I thought you’d walked out because you couldn’t take it, rather than because you’d betrayed me.”

“Cas.”

“No, shut up,” Cas hissed. “What Gabe did when he told you to leave… that was the fucking betrayal. What happened between you and Jimmy is _nothing!_ You swapped blow jobs when you were both pissed out of your minds – so what?”

“Cas,” Dean croaked. “Stop.”

“Why? So you can go on hating yourself about this?” Cas pinched the bridge of his nose.

Dean sniffed pathetically, shrugging.

“There’s one thing I need to know.”

Dean looked up. He seemed to be waiting for Cas to punch him in the face, his shoulders braced and eyes half-closed in a squint.

“Could you have stayed?”

“What?”

Cas inhaled sharply. “If you’d not fucked my brother, could you have stayed?”

He could see the thoughts flicking behind Dean’s eyes. when he blinked he dislodged fat tears and they rolled languidly down to his chin where they broke free and dripped onto his jeans, absorbed immediately. “I would have. I’d have stayed.”

Cas closed his eyes. He leaned forwards over his knees, like he was on an aeroplane hurtling out of the sky, one engine blown up and setting the wing in flames, some ocean beneath them, salty depths looming. When he got home, he’d write something else on the cabinet: _Forgive Gabriel_. He was supposed to have done it already.

“I want you to be with me,” Cas whispered.

“What?”

“I want you in my life, Dean.” Cas looked up, meeting Dean’s constant gaze. “Do you want me in yours?”

Dean grimaced. “Oh, Cas,” he sobbed, reaching toward him as he crawled over to the couch again. “I miss you. I miss you so fucking much.”

“I’m right here.”

“Don’t leave me.” Dean clutched Cas’ knees. Cas pulled them away, slinking down next to Dean on the carpet. Dean rested his head on Cas’ shoulder.

“Never on purpose,” Cas promised. He turned and kissed him on the cheek. He licked salty tears from his lips. “You taste like the sea.”

Dean laughed tearfully. “Sorry.”

“No,” Cas sighed. He kissed Dean again. “I like it.”


	27. Weaving

It was four o’clock in the morning when Cas got home. They drove silently through the sleeping streets. Bright lights shaped like stars and trees and Christmas pudding twinkled from the streetlamps. There was a dry cold in the air when Cas climbed out of the car, like it might snow. He turned back and waved at Dean through the windscreen. He smiled uncertainly, unwilling to see Cas go, in case it meant that he was _going._

Walking up the stairs to his apartment, he relived walking through Dean’s apartment. He touched the walls and felt Dean’s skin. Dean had a poster of him on the wall. It made him blush. Funny, isn’t it? The things that get to you.

Balthazar was sat in the living room with the lamp on and a book in his lap that he clearly hadn’t been reading. He looked up at Cas, blinking exhaustedly. Cas half smiled and wandered through into the kitchen. He heard the couch creak as Balthazar followed him. He opened the fridge and took out his carton of smoothie.

“Where the hell have you been?”

Cas opened the cabinet where he used to keep the glasses, but it was empty, its contents still glittering in the corners of the room. He got a mug instead, listened to the smoothie glug out and splash against the ceramic.

“Cas. You were supposed to call me for a lift. You just disappeared.”

Cas leaned against the counter and sipped his drink. Balthazar looked threadbare. Cas felt bad for him.

“You can’t do that.”

Cas swallowed, the sweetness still filling up his mouth. “Why’s that?”

Balthazar laughed bitterly. “I found you on the bathroom floor, blood everywhere. I fucking carried you out to the car and drove you to the hospital wrapped in sheets on my back seat. I held you whilst they stitched up your arms, Cas.”

Cas blinked. He put his empty mug down on the side.

“I thought you were going to die.”

“Me too.”

Balthazar glared. “It’s not fair for you to just pick and choose when you want me around, Cas.”

“Oh, it’s not fair?” Cas sighed.

Balthazar balled his hands into fists. “You’re awful.”

“I’m sorry, I just. I’m _dying_ , and that’s not fair to _you_?”

“You monster,” Balthazar whispered. “You _bastard_.”

“You know, I preferred it when you pretended not to give a shit. I don’t have time for this.” Cas walked smoothly past Balthazar and out into the hall. He felt heavy, exhausted. It was the walk in the cold. It was Dean’s lips on his skin, learning him again. It was his hands trailing over Dean’s chest and sliding under the waistband of his pants. It was the hole in his hip, where they took out a part of his marrow like they were coring an apple. His body was heavy. He couldn’t carry it. He stopped in the doorway to his bedroom, and he felt his knees go out from under him. He heard the thud as his head hit the carpet but he didn’t feel it.

“Cas?” Balthazar crouched down beside him. “Shit!” Everything was receding. It was all peeling back and he was naked and raw and suddenly, it was dark.

 

 

Dean sighed and slid his phone back into his pocket.

“You keep doing that,” Sam noted through a bite of his sandwich. “Who’s calling?”

“Not Cas,” Dean said grimly.

“Hmm. He’s probably just busy.”

“Probably.” Dean tried to be convinced and reassured, but he couldn’t settle. All afternoon at work, he was distracted, thinking about his phone, about Cas, about why he wasn’t calling. Finally, at seven o’clock when he was walking home, Dean mustered the conviction to be the one who called next. First, it rang out to answerphone. Tentatively, he tried again.

“Hello?” the voice that answered was croaky and British and definitely not Cas.

“Uh. It’s Dean. I think I got the wrong number?” Dean mumbled uncertainly.

“Oh, you. It’s Balthazar, Cas’ friend. I think we met a couple of times.”

Dean’s stomach flipped. “Oh, hey Balthazar. Where’s Cas?”

Balthazar sighed and it crackled over the line. “We’re at the hospital. He collapsed.”

Dean felt hollow. “Fuck. Is he alright?”

“His blood count is low, but he’ll be fine. It’s just been a rough day.”

“Yeah.” Dean rubbed the back of his neck, turning on his heel and marching back towards the hospital. “I’m on my way.”

“Don’t bother.”

“I want to be there,” Dean said quietly, and then he hung up before Balthazar could argue any further.

Walking through the lobby, Dean was suddenly nervous. He was afraid that he’d get up there and all the life Cas seemed to have in him the last time they spoke would be gone. He’d be that croaking husk again, and he’d be half a step from dying. God, Dean had wasted so much time. Maybe if he’d been there, this wouldn’t have happened. Maybe if he’d stuck around Cas would have stayed healthy.

Second floor, follow the blue lines on the floor, and he’d find oncology. The receptionist directed Dean to Cas’ room. He walked past wards filled with people, their heads smooth and shining, swollen bags of blood and other fluid hanging from poles above their beds. Dean only barely recognized Balthazar, standing outside one of the private rooms with his hand on the side of his head.

“Balthazar?”

“Dean,” he acknowledged with a nod. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

The brusque-ness of it made Dean cringe. “I’m sorry?”

“How long before you run off again?”

Dean recoiled as though he’d been slapped hard across the face. “I won’t.”

“Yeah, yeah. Very familiar tune, that.”

“He wants me here,” Dean protested meekly.

“If it wasn’t for that I’d have sent you packing already,” Balthazar explained, tossing his head. “He’s sent me home, now he knows you’re on your way. I thought I’d hang about and make sure you actually showed your face.”

Dean hung his head.

“I hope you understand what you’re getting into,” he hissed in conclusion, and stormed away in the direction Dean had come from. Dean stood, staring at the closed door of Cas’ room. He did know what he was getting into. Hand on the white-painted wood, he froze. He was gripped in the sharp teeth of a vicious feeling, something like anger or resentment, but it was so intense and sudden that he couldn’t figure it out. Round his mind the same things whirled and whirled. What was the point of doing this? Why should he even bother? There was something horrifically voyeuristic about it, too. Like he was just jumping on the ride at the end of it, like he hadn’t earned his place at Cas’ bedside. No wonder Balthazar looked at him like that; Cas had given him the equivalent of a fast-pass. He didn’t want it. He didn’t want Cas to be dying. He wanted years and years stretching out in front of them, where they could slowly unpick each other’s threads and weave them back together again, as one.

The door opened and Dean nearly fell face first into the room. As it was, he jumped back, heart pounding with shock. Cas was standing in the gap between the door and it’s frame. He looked paler than he had the day before, and there were bigger circles around his eyes. The biggest difference was the film of unhealthy sweat all over his skin. Dean didn’t want to touch him. He knew he’d be cold. Despite all of this, Cas was watching Dean with wry amusement, one eyebrow raised, biting his lip as though he was trying not to laugh.

Dean brushed himself off and felt himself blushing. “What?” he demanded.

“Give you a bit of a fright, there?”

“No,” Dean said dumbly, with a crooked grin.

Cas sighed, leaning on the doorframe. His eyes fluttered tiredly. Dean moved forwards to offer a hand but Cas was already shaking his head. “I can manage,” he insisted quietly. He turned and trailed back towards his bed. Dean followed, closing the door carefully, the way you might if you were trying not to wake someone up. Cas was sitting on the edge of the bed. He had a pair of jeans on, hospital gown pulled and tied over his hip as though in an attempt to make it look stylish.

Cas reached and fumbled with the knot of the gown at the back of his neck. He sighed and gave up after a moment. “Could you…?” he asked Dean, not looking at him.

“Sure,” Dean crossed the distance between them, easily undoing the knot within a few seconds. The gown shrugged itself off Cas’ shoulders, leaving his back bare and exposed. Unthinkingly, Dean traced the black edge of one of Cas’ wings. Cas hummed contentedly. “I thought I remembered how these were,” Dean said quietly. “But, I never got it right. They’re much more than I could hold onto in my head.”

Cas sighed. “Some days, when it was really bad, I thought I had imagined you. But then, I thought, someone as good as you were? I couldn’t have made you up.”

Dean was blushing. Cas turned, intrigued by his silence, and when he saw Dean’s expression, he frowned. “Hey,” he said gently. “No crying.”

Dean laughed tearfully. “Sorry.”

Cas rolled his eyes. “Oh, shut up. I want to get out of here. Makes me feel like I could keel over any minute.” He chuckled but Dean gulped.

“I’ll run and get the car.” He’d parked it at the end of his street when he got back that morning, even though it meant he had to walk in the freezing cold in just a t-shirt. Dean was hesitant to leave Cas again, but Cas smiled encouragingly, and pulled on a shirt.

“I’ll be outside the lobby,” he promised.

“Alright.” And so Dean ran, through the winding corridors and down the echoic vaulted chamber of the stairwell, his footsteps drumming, with the sound of a marching band approaching.

Cas made his way down slowly. He kept a hand on the wall. He was feeling better, but still unsteady. He kept seeing things in the corners of his vision and he wondered if he was starting to see things that other people couldn’t. In the lift, he let himself giggle at the strange lurch in his stomach as he plummeted down. It was marvellous, wasn’t it? He turned to the man next to him, but he was frowning, holding an IV pole and pulling a little oxygen tank along behind himself. He didn’t seem to notice Cas was there at all.

Outside there was still that gorgeous, crisp, wintery scent in the air. The cold filled up his lungs and he shivered, shoving his hands into his armpits. Dean’s car pulled up, headlights gleaming in the twilight, and Cas grinned as he hopped down the stairs.

“I thought you were going to be sitting down,” Dean accused.

Cas chuckled. “I only just got there.” He pretended not to notice Dean glancing at the time on his phone, tried not to think too much about what Dean must have been considering. “I don’t want to go home.”

“If you promise you’re going to sit down, we can go wherever you like.”

Cas sighed. “Have you been talking to my doctor?”

Dean rolled his eyes. “General rule is rest when you get out of hospital.”

Cas closed his eyes and leaned against the headrest. “Hmm. We could go to the movies? That’s sitting down?”

“It’s a deal.”

“I want a cup of soda that’s bigger than my head.”

Dean laughed. “What?”

Cas smiled. “You heard me. And I want a bucket of popcorn.”

“Jesus! I’ll be bankrupt!”

“I want my weight in candy,” Cas announced.

“The first two I can manage, alright?”

They parked outside the theater and Dean practically burst out of the door so he could help Cas out of his, even though he didn’t need it, even though he insisted. They walked into the theater arm in arm. “What do you want to see?”

Cas couldn’t be bothered looking up at the listings. “I don’t know. Whatever you like.”

“The new Star Wars?” Dean asked hopefully.

“You’re so predictable,” Cas sighed, leaning his head onto Dean’s shoulder.

“Excuse me, sir, but I’d drop that attitude if you want a ride home later.”

Cas breathed the smell of the theater deep. Popcorn and butter and sugar and salt. The rattle of machinery, the quiet murmur of trailers on the screens built behind them into the walls. A kid sucking the last of his soda through his straw, gurgling, snorkelling sounds. The world was awash with all these little things. “I might just stay here.”

Dean looped his arm back through Cas’ and he opened his eyes again. “You’re such a weirdo,” he said with quiet affection.

Cas grinned and kissed Dean’s shoulder. “Thanks.”

“Which showing do you want to see? 2D, 3D or IMAX?”

“Who?”

Dean looked at Cas with horror. “You don’t know what IMAX is?”

Cas shook his head.

“No ice skating and no IMAX.” He covered his eyes. “What am I going to do with you?” He led Cas to the counter.

Cas got a soda bigger than his head, and a literal bucket of popcorn. “It’s got a handle and everything,” he marvelled. “Look, Dean. It’s got a handle and everything.”

When they walked into the theater, Cas looked at the ridiculously huge screen whilst Dean calculated which of their limited seating choices would be the best. “How am I going to be able to see the whole movie?”

“What?” Dean asked distractedly.

“The screen’s so big there’s no way I can look at the whole thing.”

Dean dragged Cas up the stairs and they shuffled past a few people. Cas managed to only scatter them with a minimal amount of popcorn. When they were sat down, Dean slid an oversized set of glasses onto Cas’ face.

“You look really worried.” Dean seemed to be struggling not to laugh.

“I don’t know. I just don’t understand why anyone would choose to make the screen so big. How am I…” A huge sound that practically made their seats quiver swallowed the rest of Cas’ words. Well. Cas wasn’t sure what he was expecting but it wasn’t that. He settled back into his chair and peered at the massive screen. It swallowed him completely. The pictures and sounds washed over him. He barely had the agency to eat his popcorn and drink his soda, but he did, god, and then half an hour from the end he really needed to pee. He needed to pee so bad he was practically bouncing in his seat but he was not going to walk out of that movie theater. It was going to do awful things to his kidneys, probably, but he couldn’t just walk out of there! He had to know!

When the credits rolled he darted out of his seat like a lightning bolt, Dean laughing like a mad man behind him. In the mirrors in the bathroom, his cheeks were flushed with excitement and warmth. It was like he’d run into an old friend. There was a smile playing in the corners of his mouth. His hair was getting to be a respectable length, at long last, and he mussed it a little, sculpting it with his fingers.

When he emerged, eyes gleaming, Dean was leaning against the wall opposite the door, Cas’ coat slung over his arm. “You alright?”

“Ah, yeah. That was amazing!”

“Shame you only saw half the movie,” Dean sighed.

“What?”

“You couldn’t possibly have seen the whole thing, the screen was too big!”

Cas shoved Dean in the ribs.

“Hey!” Dean barked, laughing. He helped Cas into his coat. “Now what?”

Cas thought for a moment, tilting his head and drumming his fingers on his chin. “Take-out pizza at my place?” The look on Dean’s face was so filled with lust Cas had to splutter with laughter or risk leaping on him and tearing off all of his clothes.

“So, what did you think of the movie?” Dean asked as they climbed into the car.

“It was great. It was more the experience, though. I’ve never really been a fan of Star Wars.”

“You’re kidding me,” Dean scoffed. “This is just a tragedy.”

“Yeah?” Cas buckled his seatbelt as Dean started the Impala’s engine.

“Yeah. A tragedy of Shakespearean proportions.”

Cas snorted. “Whatever.”

“I just can’t wait to see where they’ll take it next. Such a great set up.” Dean pulled out onto the road. Cas was quiet. Dean turned, his eyes gleaming. “What?” His smile was faltering.

“No, no. It’s fine,” Cas said quickly. He shook his head, swallowing, trying to dislodge the lump in his throat. It was fine. Logically, Cas knew the world would keep on going after he died, but it was like... it was as though he'd never allowed this to occur to himself until that moment. He looked at Dean's profile, his expression serious now as he studied the road. His jaw twitched with tension. Cas had to say something or he was going to be beating himself up about it, like it was his fault. “When does it come out?” Cas' voice didn't sound the least bit reassuring and he knew it. His stomach flipped guiltily.

“The next… one…?” Dean trailed off into nothing. They had stopped at a red light.

“Same time next year?” The words were barely a squeak. Cas cursed himself silently and ran his hands anxiously through his hair.

Dean glanced over. He seemed nervous, like a deer stepping out into a meadow. “Yeah. Or the year after. I’m not sure.” He shrugged, trying to come off as nonchalant. Cas looked out of the window. It had snowed a little whilst they’d been in the theater and there was a dusting of white on the sidewalks like confectioner’s sugar. 

Pushing the subject had been a mistake. What could Cas say now, other than point out his immanent death or make a promise there was no way in hell that he could keep? 

"Sam likes Star Wars..." Dean began, his voice distant and distracted. 

Cas squeezed his eyes shut. He wanted to scream that he was sorry. He wanted to burst into flames. He wanted to disappear. Nothing happened. The engine continued to purr and growl, and Dean continued to drive. Cas' heart thudded on resolutely. 

When they got to Cas’ building, the lights on his floor were all on. “You expecting visitors?” Dean asked grimly.

“Maybe Balthazar came over,” Cas said quietly. Stealing a glance at Dean’s worried expression, he squeezed his hand. “It’s alright. Baz has been a good friend to me for the past couple of years. He knows where the line is.” Most of the time, anyway.

When they got upstairs, though, the apartment was empty. It smelled suspiciously bleached. Cas crept into the kitchen and nearly keeled over. It was spotless. He gripped the counter. There was a note on the fridge. _You’re welcome._ Cas felt a little stab of guilt, but he flattened it with his palms. “Dean?” he called.

Dean appeared in the doorway, flustered. He peered around the unfamiliar room. “Yeah?”

“You want wine?”

“Wine?” Dean looked uncomfortable.

“I have other things too.” Cas opened the fridge and started listing the contents. Dean came and wrapped him in his arms.

“You’re supposed to be sitting down.”

“I’m fine.” Cas pulled away. “Oh, look. I’ve even got some goats cheese. Weird.”

“Cas. Go sit down and we’ll order pizza.”

Cas laughed, but he could tell right away the sound was off. “I’m alright. I’m just looking.”

“Cas, what I said in the car.”

“What did you say in the car?” Cas asked breathily.

“About Star Wars. I didn’t mean…” Dean covered his face with his hands.

Cas slammed the fridge shut and leaned against it with a heavy sigh. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t even care about Star Wars,” he said gently. He stroked a finger along the top edge of Dean’s ear and he whimpered. “Dean, honey. It’s alright.”

Dean slumped miserably over the counter. “I’m such an idiot.”

Cas trailed over to him slowly and draped himself over him, resting his head between Dean’s shoulder blades. He looped his arms loosely around Dean’s waist. “Come on. Pizza.”

“Ew,” Dean grumbled, standing up and turning in Cas’ arms. He touched their noses together.

“Ew Pizza? Who are you?” Cas asked, smiling, stealing a kiss from the corner of Dean’s mouth.

“Not with come all over it,” Dean whispered devilishly, fingers crawling up Cas’ sides from nowhere.

“You’re disgusting!” Cas cried, laughing and squirming away. Dean caught him from behind and lifted him two inches off the ground. “Put me down!” he laughed, fighting against his grip.

“Never!” Dean exclaimed, but he had already lowered Cas to the ground. He was pressing soft little kisses behind Cas’ ear. “Mm, Cas.”

“I thought I was supposed to be _resting_ ,” Cas sighed.

“Mm. Good point.” Dean scooped him up again and ignored his shrieking protests, and carried him through to the couch. He set Cas on the arm and pushed back, so he toppled onto the cushions, arms flung above his head. Dean stood in the v of Cas’ legs, one knee against the couch’s arm so he could lean down and kiss the narrow strip of exposed flesh between the top of Cas’ jeans and his sweater.

“Oh, this is very…” Cas bit his lip as Dean undid the button on his jeans with his teeth. “Relaxing.”

Pizza was going to have to wait.


	28. Love Me Like You Do

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there, sorry it's been so long, I've been really busy and kind of not well and there's been all of this other crap going on but I'm better now, and my term is finished so my workload is a lot smaller, and I've kind of dealt with the thing. But anyway, here is this long awaited chapter, and there will be more in the next couple of days! Sorry again guys.

It was warm, but not particularly comfortable. Cas tried to shift but found that he could not. A heavy weight on his chest held him down fast. His breaths quick, he opened his eyes, and the ceiling was all wrong. He wasn’t in his bedroom. There was no shade on the lamp. He keened his head to the side in the grey light of the morning, and saw on the wall a creased poster of himself, white lines like a road map over his face, like an old portrait hanging on the wall of a stately home, long after he was dead.

“Cas?”

The weight on his chest shifted and vanished, and – bleary eyed with hair sticking out at every angle – Dean smiled. The tension shuddered out of Cas in one big _whoosh._ One of Dean’s legs was slung over his, their ankles entwined, the heat of Dean’s body warming Cas to his bones. He closed his eyes and stretched against the sheets. “Mm. Morning.”

Dean kissed the corner of Cas’ mouth and detangled them a little, sitting up and arranging the sheets. Without him pressed near, cold crept up through the mattress. “I’ll freeze if you leave me here,” Cas complained.

“Oh, heaven forbid you have to actually get _dressed,”_ Dean mocked.

Cas glared up at him, tugging the duvet up to his chin. “Clothes are overrated.”

Dean chuckled. “They are on you, anyway.”

Cas scoffed. “Shut up.”

Dean grabbed his phone off the bedside table. “Oh, shit.”

“What?”

“Alarm didn’t go off. We’ve only got an hour until we’re supposed to meet Sam.”

Cas groaned and pulled the duvet all the way over his head. “Ugh. Can’t he just come here?”

“To visit your bedside?” Dean jibed. “Come on. It’ll be nice. The place we’re going does peppermint hot chocolate.”

“Bring some back for me.”

“Cas. What’s up with you?” Dean pried the sheets from Cas’ fingers and exposed his face to the cool air. He brushed his knuckles over Cas’ forehead and Cas frowned with irritation. This was not a gesture of affection but an attempt to subtly measure his temperature.

“Nothing’s up,” Cas snapped. The past two days had been delightful, but Cas’ stomach was churning. Tomorrow was the twenty first. He had to have a lumbar puncture. Of all these small procedures Cas had slowly had to get to grips with, lumbar punctures he despised the most. He would be out of action for the rest of the day afterwards, or he’d risk inflaming the nerves in his spine. It wasn’t worth pushing it. Lumbar punctures were the one thing where the risks of going against a doctor’s orders outweighed the crushing panic of the lights Cas could see flickering ahead of him, where the tracks his life had been rattling along would come to a definite end. He couldn’t slow the train down. There was nothing he could do but wait.

“Cas,” Dean said desperately. “Don’t shut me out.”

“I’m not, I…” Cas squeezed his eyes shut. He _was_ shutting him out, but he had to. He wound his fingers into Dean’s and gripped them tight. “I just don’t want to share you.”

Dean sighed exasperatedly. “Whatever. You’re bullshitting me.” He squeezed Cas’ fingers then let them go. “When you’re willing to be a grown up about this and get your ass out of bed, we’ll go meet my brother.” And with that, Dean climbed out of bed and went to shower, slamming the bedroom door as he left.

It was too much, wasn’t it? It was all happening too fast. Cas sat up and looked at the empty space where Dean had been sitting, the outline of his body still marked in the sheets. A hideous feeling of loss and abandonment made Cas’ eyes prickle. He smoothed his hand across their warmth and shuffled across to fill his space. Closing his eyes again, he nuzzled against Dean’s pillow, breathing the soft scent of him deep. Dean was just on the other side of the thin wall. Cas could hear the glittering clatter of water hitting the bathtub. He wasn’t gone, he was right there.

Cas sat up and climbed out of the bed. He shivered and folded himself into Dean’s dressing gown. He shuffled out of the bedroom and into the scant living room. Though he’d closed the bedroom door, Dean had left the bathroom one ajar. Plumes of steam billowed from it, an invitation. Cas slipped inside, feet slapping quietly against the condensation slick tiles. He slipped out of the dressing gown and pulled the shower curtain back.

Dean yelped in surprise. “Fuck! Fuck. Get a fucking bell!” he gasped, theatrically gripping his chest.

Cas grinned and reached for Dean’s steady hand to help him over the lip of the tub. “Sorry.”

“No you’re not,” Dean grumbled. “Awh, damn it! I wasted all that shower gel.” A thick blue clot of it was steadily retreating towards the plughole.

“Do the peppermint hot chocolates come with candy canes to stir?” Cas asked, handing Dean the bottle of shower gel.

“You bet.” Dean pressed a warm hand to the centre of Cas’ chest and slowly worked up a lather. Cas hummed contentedly, leaning closer, reached to place his own hand on Dean’s hip, his thumb pressed between where his thigh joins his pelvis. “Whoa there, we’ve only got an hour before we-” Cas cut him off with a long, insistent kiss.

An hour and fifteen minutes later they arrived at the coffee shop. Sam had already ordered and was sitting at the seat in the window. When he spotted Dean and Cas approaching, his expression hardened, but then turned to one of wry amusement. Despite himself, Dean grinned. In the doorway, Cas grabbed his hand, his blue eyes wide with apprehension. “What?”

“This is the first time I’m meeting him in person,” Cas whispered, glancing over at Sam.

Dean laughed. “Oh, right. He’s nice. Actually, scratch that. He doesn’t bite.”

“No but,” Cas ran his free hand through his hair, something he only did when he was feeling self-conscious. "If this goes bad, I won’t have a lot of chances to make it right.” As soon as the words were spoken, Cas looked as if he regretted it. He bit his lip, watching Dean intently. A warm rush of affection compelled Dean to swoop forwards and kiss Cas very, very gently.

“It’s going to be fine.”

Cas took a deep breath and tugged his and through his hair again. “Okay. Let’s do this.”

Grinning, Dean turned back to Sam, expecting to find his brother with a mocking grin. Instead, Sam was frowning, staring at Cas. “Sammy!” Dean called, sitting next to him. Sam blinked like he’d been summoned out of a trance.

“Hey, Dean. And Cas, it’s nice to finally meet you in person.” Sam extended his hand but there was something off about his tone, Dean thought. He glanced at Cas worriedly, but he was smiling a particular kind of smile, one that completely hid everything going on inside his head. Dean watched them shake hands, an odd twisting feeling in his gut, but as soon as Cas was sat down, everything loosened up a little and Sam seemed, bizarrely, fine. Cas and Sam soon found common ground, some novelist or something, and Dean had to sit back with a contented sigh and watch their conversation playing out. By the time they’d finished their drinks, it had been an hour and a half. Cas announced that he was going to the Men’s room. Sam grinned at Cas’ retreating form until the door into the toilets swung shut, and then he turned his attention entirely on Dean.

“What’s going on?” Sam’s deadpan tone surprised Dean.

“Man. I’m going to get whiplash,” Dean grumbled.

“There’s something going on, I can tell,” Sam said pointedly, with a little shrug.

“Sammy…”

“Ugh. I’m so done with your shit, Dean. What’s going on? It’s been _years_. If you’re going to be able to work this out – _if_ – it’s going to take a very, very long time. You can’t expect to just fall in with him and for you to just… I don’t know. Pick up wherever you left off.”

Dean could only blink mutely for a moment.

“Dean. I’m serious.” Sam raised his eyebrows as though to emphasise this. “Don’t rush this.”

There was a huge, thick lump in Dean’s throat like he’d swallowed a football. Over Sam’s shoulder he saw Cas emerge from the men’s room, smiling until he spotted Dean’s expression. He froze, halfway out into the café. Everything was amplified; the clink of mugs on saucers; the hiss of the coffee machine; the clang of metal parts striking against one another; chatter moulded into a wordless blob of noise around them. But somehow, somehow Dean could hear the breath catch in Cas’ throat as his gaze flickered down to the floor. Dean stood up. He wasn’t sure why but his body was moving. He reached Cas and immediately felt a hand on the sleeve of his jacket, gripping tight. “Dean,” Cas said quietly. “What?”

Without warning, and to his own complete shock, Dean sobbed. He let Cas pull him close into a hug and buried his face into his shoulder, breathing the smell of him deep. He could feel Cas’ hands clutching and unclutching over his back.

“What’s going on?” Sam asked from somewhere behind Dean. He felt Cas shrug and lifted his head to try and say something but he couldn’t get his breath steady enough to form the words properly. Cas stroked along the edge of Dean’s jaw, his fingers gentle and cool against the hot stickiness of Dean’s skin.

“You want to get some air?” Cas asked. Oh, _fuck._ His eyes. Dean’s memory and imagination hadn’t done them justice. Even photographs couldn’t fully capture them, blue and seemingly endless, watching him so closely, waiting for signs. Dean gulped and nodded. “Okay. Come on.”

Outside the air was so cold it felt liquid in Dean’s throat. He clung to Cas’ hand, looking across the street, over the curved, glinting rooves of cars and the tented glowing boxes fixed to the tops of cabs.

“Dean, are you okay?” Cas asked gently. Dean turned, Cas’ wide blue eyes were peering cautiously up at him. Sam was behind him, saying something that Dean couldn’t be bothered to try and make out. Dean stroked a finger down the side of Cas’ face, and he shivered.

“Oh, Cas,” Dean said suddenly, his voice hoarse. “It’s too cold out here. You need your coat.”

“I’m fine for a moment,” Cas insisted. “What happened?”

“Sam,” Dean croaked, then fell silent because he sounded so pathetic. Sam looked over, frowning and furious.

“I was just trying to help you out, Jesus,” he grumbled. “You get all crazy at me. I barely said a word.”

Dean felt his eyes welling up again. He blinked angrily and hastily swiped the tears away with his knuckles. Cas, watching carefully, with all the love in the fucking universe, shivered again. “Cas. You need to go inside.”

“I’m fine,” Cas said, a little more coarsely that before.

“What the hell is going on?” Sam asked exasperatedly.

Cas trembled like a leaf, a blast of mist bursting from his nose. Dean practically whimpered. “Cas, please go inside.”

“Oh _for God’s sake I am not about to keel over_ ,” Cas hissed. He turned to Sam, expression furious. “You two, talk this the fuck out.” He turned and marched back into the coffee house, slamming the door shut behind himself.

“What, he takes orders for you now?” Sam had his arms crossed against his chest.

Dean rolled his eyes. “He knows I was right,” he said quietly.

“Right?” Sam pressed. He still looked mad but his expression had softened.

Dean put his hands over his face for a few seconds and tried to lay it all out straight in his head, without much luck.

“Dean?”

“Alright, alright! I’m thinking,” he groaned. He dropped his hands and looked up at the sky way above them.

“Dean…” Sam sounded weird. He grabbed the top of Dean’s arm, but he didn’t turn around. instead, he just closed his eyes and took a deep, deep breath of the December air. “Is this. Is this to do with what happened before?”

Dean laughed wryly. “Oh fuck. Like it needed to sound anymore ominous.”

“Shut up. What am I supposed to say?”

“God, I. ‘Is it the cancer’?” Dean sighed and shook his head.

“So… it’s not?”

Dean turned and looked his brother dead in the eye. “He’s sick, Sam.”

“How sick?” Sam’s voice was hedgy, like he was uncertain if he wanted to know the answer.

“He doesn’t know how long he’s got,” Dean whispered. He dropped Sam’s gaze and stared down at the pavement.

“Oh. Oh, Dean.” Sam’s was talking very quietly. A gust of wind tore at Dean’s clothes. He turned back to the coffee shop. Cas was sitting in the window, looking down into his coffee. He was so beautiful, with those eyes and those lips. And when he sang, that voice, oh. The man was a gift. It was a crime that the world could even think of going on without him.

Cas looked up from his coffee. When he spotted Dean on the sidewalk for a moment it seemed he didn’t recognise him. His face was openly confused, or maybe even shocked. For a beautiful moment, they were strangers, and Dean saw him completely differently than ever before. He was devastatingly handsome, yes, but something else, too. It tied Dean up in knots inside. Then a soft smile broke across Cas’ features, and little creases crinkled around his eyes, and the spell was broken. He was everything Dean knew, the singer, the guitarist, the lover, the ex, the patient. The lover. Dying. _Dying._

“I’m going back inside,” he announced.

“Dean, we should talk about this,” Sam protested. He grabbed Dean’s arm.

Dean glared at him. “I do not have the time,” Dean muttered and yanked himself free. He sat back down next to Cas, and was relieved when Sam sat down on the other side of him.

“Feeling better?” Cas asked, with forced breeziness.

“Much,” Dean replied, finding Cas’ hand under the table and squeezing it gently.

“So,” Sam said loudly. Cas turned to him tentatively. Dean glared, a threat. Sam raised his eyebrows; _as if I would_ , his expression said. “You two got any plans for the holidays?”

Dean scoffed.

Cas peered around at him with a raised eyebrow. “Haven’t we?”

Dean faltered. “I’ve never… you said you never, either?”

Cas shrugged and sipped his coffee. “I didn’t. The living situation in my house wasn’t exactly… comfortable. We had a tree and.” Cas laughed humourlessly. “And executive parties. But that’s all.”

“At least you had a tree,” Sam chimed in.

“Mom did her best,” Dean mumbled.

“Yeah. We had a tree one year, remember? Made out of books and cassette tapes.”

Dean cracked a smile. It was Cas’ favorite kind of smile, easy and crooked, as though it had taken Dean by surprise. “Yeah, course I remember. That was the year we got that, uh, that train set.”

“Uh huh,” Sam shook his head. There wasn’t much resemblance between him and Dean, Cas thought, but what there was mostly surfaced when they moved. They shared a swagger, though it seemed more comical on Sam because of the extra half-foot of limbs he had on Dean. It was mostly the set of their shoulders, and the way they moved their hands when they talked. Cas had always thought of Dean as an open book, and Sam was the same, but in a subtly different way. Dean was all sheer honesty. With Sam, Cas could tell the picture he was giving of himself was incomplete. He was more sure of himself than Dean could ever be, and more closed off for it.

They talked about their childhood Christmases, about when Dean and Sam’s dad was still around, about snow and their mother and ice skating on frozen lakes. Cas talked a little too, about Gabe drinking from their parents’ liquor cabinet when he was only nine or ten, and throwing up crème liqueur on the Italian rug. When it was starting to go dark and they’d had three coffees and a cake each, Sam announced that he had to get back home to work on some paperwork for his next case, and the three of them parted ways.

Dean held open the passenger door for Cas and he laughed. “Such a gentleman.”

“You know it, darlin’.”

“Oh my,” Cas chuckled as Dean started the engine. “And a regular southern belle.”

“Can you be a belle and a gentleman?”

“You’re living proof it’s possible,” Cas sighed. The Christmas lights on the streets glittered above them. “Thanks.”

“What for?”

“For getting me to do that.”

Dean scoffed. “Yeah, it went real smoothly.”

“No. I mean it.”

Dean gulped. Cas watched his Adam’s apple bob up and down. “Cas…”

“Don’t go all ‘Cas’ on me,” Cas sighed, and he looked back out onto the streets. “Everything looks so gorgeous at Christmas, with all the lights…” They slowed down and came to a standstill by some traffic lights. A grocery store had a line of Christmas trees out front. “Let’s buy a Christmas tree?”

“What?” Dean was grinning, amused.

“I’m not kidding. Let’s do it,” Cas said, more firmly this time.

Dean’s eyes glinted. “Alright. Let’s.” He beamed. He changed lanes and the drivers behind him yelled and slammed their horns in protest. An hour later, they were parked outside of Cas’ building with a huge pine tree strapped to the top of the Impala. “I swear to god, if there’s so much a scratch on that roof.”

“Oh, I’m so scared,” Cas teased, leaning over and planting a kiss on Dean’s cheek. He grabbed the handles of the bag by his feet, which was laden with newly-bought Christmas decorations. “Come on, let’s do Christmas!”

He practically skipped over to the door to unlock it. Dean was laughing at him. “What’s got into you?”

Cas laughed too. “I don’t know. I’m excited, I guess.”

Dean grinned, sparkling. “Great.” Cas helped Dean untie the tree and then opened the door wide. Both of them stared at the staircase up to Cas’ apartment. “We didn’t think this through.”

Cas held up his hands in surrender. “Don’t look at me, I’m sick!” Cas protested. Dean rolled his eyes and reached for him but Cas darted out of reach. “Christmas!” he announced, desperately. “Please?”

Dean sighed and turned his back on Cas reluctantly. “Ugh. Fine. I’ll see you upstairs in the next few years.”

“You better hurry or I might be dead,” Cas called.

“Shut up,” Dean yelled after him.

Cas laughed and made his way upstairs. Inside he tore off his coat and put the decorations on the couch before heading to the kitchen to fiddle with the thermostat. When he got there, though, he ground to a halt. 

"Cas. I was wondering when you'd finally show your face."


	29. The List

Cas had been writing a list.

Balthazar sort of knew about it, but not really. He’d guessed. And he’d seen what he’d written about Dean on the cabinet. But he hadn’t seen the list itself.

The past few days he’d been adding more and more to it. Ever since he’d started seeing Dean again the list had started to grow. Before then, it had been modest. It had twenty, maybe twenty-five items on it. The first was to perform whenever anyone asked him to. Balthazar knew about that one; it was why he’d risked bringing up the charity ball in the first place. Not that Cas had been thinking seriously about what the list really was at that point. It wasn’t even written down.

After running into Dean, he’d realised that, too, was on the list. And seeing him again, and again. Touching him, kissing him. A list that had once comprised of things like ‘taste treacle tarts again’ and ‘summer picnic’ had expanded to include telling Dean he loved him, and meeting his brother, and having kids, and growing old together. The list only got more painful the more he worked on it. There were now hundreds of items in the little black notebook had had tucked behind the headboard of his bed. Almost all of them were impossible.

Including, maybe, the one that sprang to mind the moment he’d walked into the kitchen and found that he and Dean were not alone in his apartment. Item number thirty-eight. _Forgive Gabriel._

What he’d said he’d meant as a joke. He was smiling, a cautious facsimile of his old, easy smile, the one he used when he was trying to win Cas around to one of his stupid schemes. It stabbed Cas in the gut, because he’d trusted him. Above all else, he’d trusted his brother. He fought so hard to keep Gabe safe from all of his troubles, hiding away depression, suicide attempts, and even his cancer, in the end. He just wanted to keep Gabe out of it all, because it wasn’t his fault, and Cas’ problems didn’t have to be his problems, too. Not like that.

He tried to think about what Gabe had done along those same lines. He was meaning to protect Cas, just as Cas had always meant to protect him. He didn’t understand what he was doing. That Dean was the last light Cas had felt in the world. That even in remission, he thought about dying every day that Dean wasn’t there. That when his diagnosis came a second time round, he was glad of it.

To be filled with tar that was eating him from the inside out. For it to come to an end. To let what had almost taken him consume him like the sea consumes ships, with stormy waves and screams and lightening, and leave nothing behind but a few floating crates. To be glad of that. He hated it. He hated himself.

Gabe was still smiling, waiting for Cas to respond to him.

Cas wanted to forgive him. It seemed likely that if Dean hadn’t left, they’d have broken up eventually, over something or other, and now he’d have this love untainted when he died. It was a bittersweet reunion, but there was no resentment there, and there might have been, if Dean hadn’t left when he did.

He’d thought about it a lot. He’d thought about hugging Gabe and telling him he knew that he was sorry, that he could stop feeling guilty, because Cas understood. He did understand. But it didn’t change the rage he felt, just looking at him, standing there, waiting. Cas opened his mouth to speak but he couldn’t make any sound come out. He took a deep breath and tried again. 

“You’ve been drinking,” Cas said curtly. It wasn’t a question.

“Guilty,” Gabe answered, his smile gaining an ounce more of self-assurance. Cas’ eye twitched.

From the corner Baz reached towards Cas’ shoulder. “Cas, look-”

“You let him in here, didn’t you?”

“I knew you wouldn’t talk to him otherwise,” Baz protested desperately. “What was I supposed to do?”

“Respect my wishes,” Cas growled. “I thought I could trust you to do that, at least.”

Baz winced. “Oh, your wishes?” he asked sourly. “Because all you want is for him to fuck off, right? Because that’s how you want it to be when you go. Jesus, I knew you were self-centred but I didn’t know you were that much of a dick.”

“Self-centred?” Cas scoffed. “Go fuck yourself, Baz. And take my brother with you.”

“Cas. Please,” Gabe mumbled. His eyes were ringed red. Cas hoped to god it was from crying. “I’ll go, if that’s what you really want. I promise.”

There was a clatter in the living room. “Oh fuck!” Dean cried, panting. “I hope… this is fucking worth it!” he called. Cas grimaced and braced himself. Dean sauntered into the kitchen. “What the hell is going on?” he demanded.

“Balthazar and my brother were just leaving,” Cas insisted smoothly.

Dean looked worriedly between Cas and his brother. “Is something up?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Gabe announced bitterly, pushing past them to escape the room.

“Gabe, wait!” Balthazar called, moving to follow him.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Cas whispered to him, eyes wide. Balthazar looked heartbroken for a moment, but steeled himself fast.

“Same as always. I’m trying to help.”

Cas held his ground for a couple of seconds more, and then stepped aside. Balthazar ran out after Gabe. Cas listened for the slam of the front door, and as soon as he heard it, he slumped backwards into Dean.

“Hey, you alright?”

Cas shook his head. He rolled around so his head was resting in the centre of Dean’s chest. “I can’t forgive him.”

“Who?”

“What do you mean, ‘who’?” Cas moaned despairingly. He stood up and slouched over to the freezer. He pulled out a bottle of vodka.

“Easy tiger,” Dean said gently, but he didn’t move to take the vodka from Cas’ hands. Cas held hs gaze, unscrewed the cap, and took a gulp of the icy liquid inside. It burned hot trails down to his stomach and he shuddered. He held the bottle towards Dean, but he raised his hand, grimacing. “Not straight.”

Cas tutted. “I know that, dear,” he sighed. He took another swig. The outside of the bottle was coated in a fine down of frost, soft to touch. “I think I hate him.”

“What, Gabe?” Dean asked, opening one of the cupboards and closing it again. He did this a few times before successfully locating glasses. He then took a bottle of wine out of the rack and poured them a glass each. Cas screwed the lid back on the vodka and put it away again. He sipped his wine. “There, better?”

“Huh. I guess,” he mumbled, shrugging.

“You don’t hate Gabe.”

“How do you know?”

“Baz wouldn’t have brought him over otherwise.”

Cas swallowed the rest of his wine in one. The edges of his thoughts were starting to feel a little fuzzy. Man, it didn’t take long for drink to affect him these days. He still wasn’t used to his feather weight, and combining it with painkillers probably didn’t help. “Oh, crap,” he groaned, setting his empty glass down. “I have a lumbar puncture tomorrow.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Dean looked put out.

“I didn’t want you to worry.”

“Babe,” Dean muttered, stepping forward to place a hand on each of Cas’ hips. “I worry. Deal with it.”

Cas stuck out his tongue. “No.”

Dean smiled, but it didn’t meet his eye. “Seriously. You should tell me these things.”

“Do you have a shift tomorrow morning?”

“Evening,” Dean explained. “Why? You want me to come with you?”

Cas hung his head. “Would that be alright?”

Very gently, Dean slid his hands along Cas’ jaw and tilted his face up again. They locked eyes. Dean stroked Cas’ cheekbones with the pads of his thumbs. “I love you, Castiel Milton.”

Cas felt his smile change his face, felt a blush rushing to meet Dean’s palms. “I love you too.” Dean laughed, his green eyes glittering, and stooped forwards to kiss him, long and sweet. Cas wound his arms eagerly around Dean’s waist, hooking his fingers under the waistband of his underwear. Dean dropped Cas’ face to grab his wrists. Cas pouted. “I do something wrong?”

Dean chuckled. “Christmas tree,” he reminded him gently.

Cas’ half-faded smile came back and he darted out of the kitchen. Dean stood leaning against the counter for a few moments, listening to the rustle of paper and tinkle of baubles as Cas tore open all of their purchases. He took a deep breath, catching his reflection in the fridge. “You can smile for him, Winchester,” he muttered to himself, and then he forced on a huge grin and stepped out into the living room.

As soon as he saw Cas, tinsel draped around his shoulders, the grin tuned from feigned to genuine. Cas laughed. “What?” he protested, throwing a bauble at Dean’s forehead.

“Ow! Watch it.”

“Sorry,” Cas said, with a mischievous giggle. “The tree?”

Dean went behind the couch and lifted up the still-net-restrained tree. It had about three inches of clearance from the ceiling. 

“See,” Cas announced triumphantly. “I told you it’d fit.”

Dean scoffed. “That you did.” He fumbled in his pockets for his knife and cut the branches free. The fell open, scattering the cream carpet with needles and radiating a gorgeous smell. “Oh my god, that smell is amazing.”

Cas inhaled deeply. “I want mulled wine,” he complained.

“You got any cinnamon sticks?”

Cas shrugged. “Maybe.”

“Ground cloves? Ginger?”

“Possibly.”

“I’ll go look.” Dean searched the cupboards until he found a set of unopened spice jars. “Don’t you ever cook?” he called back through to Cas.

“Not the kind of stuff that needs spices.”

“Cas, baby. _Everything_ needs some kind of spices.”

“Not mac and cheese.”

“Mac and cheese does not count as cooking.”

“Even if I make my own cheese sauce?”

“How many ingredients does it have?”

Cas appeared in the doorway. He had a bauble looped around each ear and one dangling from each of his fingers, and he was still wearing the tinsel. “Um. Cheese?”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Pasta with melted cheese on it does not count as cooking. It doesn’t even count as mac and cheese.”

“It’s macaroni shaped pasta,” Cas mumbled.

“Two ingredients is not cooking!”

“Like you cook either.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “What’s that mean?”

“I’ve seen your apartment. Your kitchen’s tiny. You couldn’t do much cooking in it even if you wanted to.”

“Huh. Rumbled.” Dean nodded. “We’ll cook here Christmas day then.”

“I’ve got the tree.” Cas beamed.

“You have indeed,” Dean agreed. “Which reminds me. How much of the stuff has actually made it onto the tree so far?”

Cas keened his neck to peer into the living room. “Uh, five baubles and a star.”

“You’re rubbish.”

“Am not.”

“Whatever. I’m making mulled wine. The halls better be decked by the time it’s ready.”

“Oh.” Cas raised his eyebrows and waggled them. “Yes, sir.” As he turned out of the room, Dean slapped him on the ass and he squealed. “Alright!” he said, through giggles.

Dean poured the rest of the wine into a pan and added the spices. In the living room, Cas started up singing. “Deck the halls with boughs of holly, falalalala, lalalalaaaaaa.” A few lines of the carol later, he slid across the kitchen tiles to wrap his arms around Dean’s chest as he stirred the wine. “DON WE NOW OUR GAY APPARELL!” he wailed. Dean laughed.

“We always wear gay apparel!”

“Darling, I always thought you were bi,” Cas whispered into Dean’s ear before giving it a playful nip. “Is the wine done?”

“Are the halls decked?”

“Some.”

“Cas. Are they decked or not?”

“Eh. I suppose.”

Dean sighed. “That’s not very inspiring.”

Cas dropped his arms and took a few steps back. Dean turned, quizzically. Cas was staring at him intensely. “I love you.”

“Love you too.”

Cas went on staring. Dean turned the heat off on the wine. “What?” he demanded.

Cas shook his head. “Nothing.”

“Cas,” Dean protested. As though summoned, Cas stepped forwards and pressed the hot line of his body along Dean’s, kissing him hard and deep. Dean groaning, opening up under Cas’ mouth, hands moving to the middle of Cas’ chest.

“I want you,” Cas whispered raggedly.

“You’ve got me,” Dean promised.

Cas bit Dean’s lip. “No. I _want_ you.” He rolled his hips. Dean’s jeans were getting tighter and tighter.

“The wine,” Dean said weakly.

“It’ll heat up.” Cas kissed him again, the same hungry, searching kiss as before. Oh, it certainly heat it up. Very fast.

Cas led Dean by the belt loops to the couch. The lights were off in the living room, apart from the soft white ones on the tree. They caught in the red baubles and sparkled. Flecks of gold twinkled in the green of Dean’s eyes, and Cas couldn’t stop staring at him. Out the window, streetlamps glowed on the water. Cas tore off Dean’s shirt. The soft light did wonders to his unseasonably tanned skin.

There were faint claw marks from their recent reunion still scratched down Dean’s chest. Cas traced them with his tongue, pausing to lap and Dean’s nipples and make him hiss. “My god, Winchester,” Cas sighed, straddling him.

“My god yourself,” Dean grunted, and tried to kiss him. Cas pulled back, batting his eyelashes in a mockery of coyness. “Cas, please.”

Cas rocked forwards. “Oh, fuck, yes. You’re so desperate for it.”

“Please,” Dean begged, hands uselessly pressed against Cas’ sides.

“What do you want?”

“I want you to take off your clothes and fuck me, oh god, oh please. Cas. Please.”

Cas loved that he could make Dean come undone that fast. That just sitting on him like that would make him writhe and plead and moan. He wanted it for always. He wanted to fuck Dean a thousand times, to know him every way there was to know someone. He wanted to tie him up, gag him, spank him raw –

“Oh, Cas, please,” Dean begged again. “I want it too.”

A chill stilled Cas entirely. “Was I saying that out loud?” he whispered.

Dean arched into Cas’ crotch, grinding against him. “Fuck me, tie me, gag me, spank me.”

“Oh, Dean,” Cas leaned down and kissed him, trying to put everything he was feeling into that kiss, all the impossible things, the unsayable things. “I want you forever.”

“I’m yours forever,” Dean promised.

Cas moaned and struck his nails down Dean’s chest, eliciting a delighted gasp. He looked down, watching the lines purple into his skin. In some places, the marks were beading red. “You’re bleeding.”

“Good,” Dean gasped, and they kissed again. Cas fought with Dean’s belt and soon they were naked, both of them. Dean turned under Cas, peering back over his shoulder as he arched his back. “Do you want me?”

“I fuck. I want you,” Cas spluttered. Cas looked around. “Oh. Fuck. No lube.”

“My jeans.”

“You fiend!”

“I like to be prepared,” Dean explained, as Cas located the little bottle. “Only, not too much.”

Cas paused, fingers slick. “What do you mean?”

“I want to feel you,” Dean said quietly. It was hard to tell in the dusky light, but it seemed like he was blushing. “I want it to burn.”

Cas laughed darkly. “I missed you.”

“I’m right here,” Dean reminded him.

Cas moved, and pressed a finger into Dean without warning. Dean yelped, but in a pleasantly surprised kind of way. “And I’m right here.”

“Oh Cas,” Dean whined. “Do it now. I can’t wait,” he pleaded.

“Not yet,” Cas hushed him, pushing further and winding his finger around, making Dean’s knees tremble. “Kneel,” Cas instructed. Dean obeyed. Cas knelt too, his knees parting Dean’s, forcing him wide, not that he needed to be forced. Sweat glistened on his back. He gripped the sofa cushions. Cas worked him, talking softly, biting his shoulders, reminding Dean of what was to come with soft nudges against the side of his ass. And finally, finally, Cas slid into him. “Do you feel me?”

“Yes, oh god yes.”

“Am I hurting you?”

“Yes,” Dean squeaked.

“Do you want me to stop?”

“Fuck no,” Dean growled. “Please. Please do this. I want you. I need you. Cas.”

The words went straight to Cas’ head, and from there immediately to his dick, hot, pressed into Dean, not quite as deep as he could go. Cas took a steadying breath and rectified that. His hipbones were sharp but Dean didn’t seem to mind them digging into his buttocks. Not that he’d have had the willpower to notice. He was glistening in the light now, gasping and glorious. Cas drew lines down Dean’s back with his fingernails and Dean sobbed.

“You want me to stop?” Cas asked, barely able to form the words.

“No, no!” Dean was completely wrecked, shaking his head desperately. “Never stop, never go. I need you. _Please._ ”

“I’m here,” Cas promised, and he flicked his hips back just a little, only to arch forwards again a moment later. Dean gasped and whimpered. Cas was getting close, he could feel that heat building deep in his gut.

“Oh god, Cas, don’t leave me,” Dean gasped suddenly.

Cas froze, hands on Dean’s hips. “What?”

“I don’t want you to go, Cas,” Dean sobbed. Cas moved to pull out but Dean practically shrieked. “No! No, don’t go. I need you. I need to feel you.”

“Dean, I can’t-”

“Don’t die,” Dean squeaked. “You can’t go, not when I just found you again.” His voice was tiny. He seemed far away, even though Cas was buried inside of him, even though he’d made pretty lines so deep in his skin that he was probably bleeding onto the pale sofa.

“You’re a mess, I can’t fuck you like this.”

“I’m a mess!” Dean cried in agreement. “I want you to hurt me. I’m so bad, Cas. I’m so fucking bad.”

Cas slid out of him and slumped onto the carpet. He screwed his eyes shut for a moment, listening to Dean’s stuttering breaths. Thousands of things raced through him. Of everything that Gabe had done, this was the worst. Keeping Cas from Dean? That was enough. But to keep Dean from Cas, so much that it left him like this? That was a crime no penance could redeem.

Dean sat back on his heels, not looking up from the carpet. “Sorry.”

Cas shook his head. “It’s okay.”

“Today, at the café. Sam. He said I shouldn’t,” Dean’s breath caught. He closed his eyes, steadied himself. “He told me not to rush things.” He lifted his head. “And I got thinking about what if we didn’t rush, but we don’t have time, Cas, there’s no time.” Cas stroked Dean’s tear-damp cheek.

“I have the rest of my life,” he told him quietly.

Dean crumpled, covering his face with his hands. “I won’t ever love anyone like this again. You’re everything. Walking away from you like I did, I could only bear it when I thought it was going to save you.”

“Maybe you won’t, maybe you will.”

“Don’t,” Dean whispered.

“You’ve got your whole life ahead of you,” Cas reminded him.

“Cas,” Dean croaked. “Oh, Cas. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”

“So’s everyone,” Cas sighed. He leaned against the sofa. “Doesn’t change anything.”

Dean continued to cry for a while, but then it went very quiet. Cas head the couch rustle as Dean leant against it too. Cas peered over at him. He had his eyes squeezed shut. He grabbed Dean’s tightly clenched fist and gently rubbed his knuckles, until Dean finally unfurled his fingers and they could press their palms together.

“Look,” Cas murmured. “It’s snowing.”

Dean lifted his head towards the window. Tiny white clouds were floating down into the river. “You’re going to have a white Christmas.”

Cas smiled. “It’s on the list.”

“There’s a list?” Dean asked, very quietly.

Cas turned to him. Dean was still looking out of the window. “Yes.”

Dean nodded, not looking at him. “Can I help?”

“That depends.”

Dean finally looked over, and was confused by Cas’ expression. Cas wondered about why. He was smiling, waiting for him to turn. What was it Dean could see in his eyes that made him stare like that?

“What does it depend on?” Dean asked.

Cas blinked. Oh, yes. There had been more to that, hadn’t there. “Are you still going to stay with me?”

Dean clutched Cas’ hand tighter, and took a deep breath. “For the rest of your life.”

Cas’ eyes were stinging suspiciously. “Then yes,” he managed to say, after a moment.


	30. Raise Me From Perdition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Medical stuff. 
> 
> The next chapter will be very fluffy, do not fear!

Cas had been awake for three hours and forty-three minutes when his alarm went off the next morning. He was waiting for the coffee brew, staring at the cold pot of mulled wine still sat on the stove top. The alarm trilled and Cas took the pills he’d already lined up along the counter, sipping orange juice after eat one, hoping the sharpness of it would go some way to disguise the bitterness of them. It went quiet, and Cas heard Dean climb out of the bed. The coffee finished brewing and Cas poured them each a cup.

“Morning,” Dean yawned.

“Hey.” Cas handed him a steaming mug.

Dean was frowning. “How long have you been awake?”

Cas shrugged. “I couldn’t sleep.”

“You look exhausted.”

“I’m always exhausted.”

Dean pursed his lips. “Sit down. I’ll make you some breakfast.”

Cas laughed wryly. “With what?”

“I’m sure I can rustle something up.”

Cas shook his head. “I’m not hungry.”

“Cas,” Dean sighed.

“I don’t want anything to eat, alright?”

“Fine.” Dean leaned against the counter. Cas looked at the clock on the wall. “What time do you need to be there?”

“Nine.”

“You need to shower?”

“Yeah.”

“You sure you want me to come with you?” Dean’s eyes were wide with uncertainty.

Cas took a deep breath and nodded. “You don’t have to.”

“If you want me there, I want to be there.” Dean kissed Cas’ cheek, somehow sensing that was all Cas could cope with at that moment. Cas sighed and shuddered with relief. “You need to sit down?”

“It’s going to be bad,” he said quietly.

“You don’t know that.”

Cas closed his eyes. “Yes. I do.”

“I’ll be right there with you.”

Cas grabbed Dean’s hand and held it tight. “I won’t do it every week,” he whispered.

“What do you mean?”

“I had to do them every week,” Cas explained.

Dean squeezed his fingers. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

“Do you mean that?”

Dean had to steel himself for a moment before he could answer. “Yes. I mean that.”

Cas nodded and took a long breath. “Thank you.”

Cas dropped Dean’s hand and walked slowly back to his bedroom. His limbs felt heavy, but not because he was tired (though he was). It was reluctance that was weighing him down. A small part of him egged him on, still fighting in his corner, screaming that he could do it, that he could get dressed and go on and it would all be damn fine if he could just carry on. It was very hard to listen to that voice when the rest of him new for certain it was wrong. The more he tried, the fainter the voice got. He pushed past instead, trying to let those last embers of hope keep on glowing for as long as he could, to keep the last lustre of childish disbelief in the certainty of his own fate glow on.

When he finally reached the shower, he turned the water on before he got undressed, so the room fogged up before he even got the slightest bit damp. He stood with his back to the stream, water trickling through his hair, hot on his scalp, and dribbling towards his face from behind his ears. He thought about the place in the small of his back that they were going to pierce. He thought about the long needles shoved into him hard and fast as he lay in a foetal position, as exposed and vulnerable as the day he was born, and the nurses told him to take deep breaths.

“Cas? Are you alright?”

Somehow he had ended up on the floor. The water was still clattering against him. Dean was taking off his clothes and stepping in there with him. He slipped his hands under Cas’ arms and pulled him to his feet.

“What is it? Did you faint?” Dean looked worried.

Cas closed his eyes. “I’m falling.”

Dean caught Cas and held him tight. “You’re not falling, I’ve got you.”

“No, I am,” Cas croaked. “I’m falling down and I can’t stop it, there’s no way to stop it.”

“I’m here, I’m here.”

“Don’t let me fall, Dean.” He clung to Dean’s slick body.

“Hey, shush,” Dean soothed. “Come on. It’ll be okay.” He extricated one arm from Cas’ grip and then the other. Something cold touched Cas’ shoulder and he jumped. “Let me,” Dean whispered. Cas looked down. Dean’s hands worked across his chest, fingers pressing gently, working up a foam out of shower gel. Cas held his breath and tilted his head back so his face was right under the shower. Dean’s hands didn’t stop, working outwards from Cas’ sternum and down towards his hips. One of them was still bruised from his bone marrow biopsy and when Dean’s fingers pressed the tender skin Cas tried to gasp but instead inhaled a mouthful of water. He straightened up, choking. Dean kissed his throat, but otherwise didn’t respond.

“Dean…” Cas rasped.

“Are you still falling?” Dean’s voice was barely audible over the water rattling brightly of the tiles.

“You’ve got me,” Cas replied.

“I’ve got you,” Dean agreed.

When they were done, Dean towelled Cas off roughly before even pausing to dry himself. Cas, warm and tender and naked, sat on the edge of his bed, watching Dean get dressed. “Come on, or you’ll be late.”

“They’re always late,” Cas explained. He closed his eyes.

“What do you want to wear?”

“Nothing.”

“You’ll be cold on the way to the car.”

Cas smiled and hummed fondly, opening his eyes to find Dean holding a pair of jeans and an oversized jumper. He accepted the offerings, and forced himself upright to grab socks, pants, and a t-shirt. “They’ll make me take them off anyway.”

“Goodie.”

“You got a hospital gowns kink?”

Dean chuckled. “That’d make my job difficult.”

“I suppose.”

“I’ve got a Castiel kink, though.”

Cas snorted. “Right.”

“I’m not kidding.”

Cas fastened his jeans then pulled on his jumper. “Whatever you say,” he huffed. They were both quiet in the car. The snow had stuck on the sidewalks, feather white fluff crushed with black shoe prints. Dean had the radio on, the volume turned down low.

“Castiel Milton,” he said at the reception.

“Okay, you’re in-”

“Room Three, right,” Cas huffed, and turned to march down the corridor. He heard Dean apologise for him and pretended not to. He shoved his hands into his pockets. Dean caught up with him.

“Hey,” he demanded.

“What?”

“I’m still here,” Dean pointed out.

Cas took a deep breath. “Yeah.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Cas screwed up his face. “Alright.”

Dean pulled one of Cas’ hands from his pocket and held it between both of his own. “Do you trust me?”

Cas looked at their hands. He wound his fingers into Dean’s. “With my life.”

Dean smiled as though relieved. Cool waves of it lapped at Cas’ peripheral awareness, but it felt very far away. In room three, he went behind the curtain and took off the clothes he’d just put on. As he slipped into a hospital gown, he could still feel Dean’s warm hands rubbing lather into his skin. He took a deep breath. When he stepped out from behind the curtain, Dean was still there, waiting, smiling, his hand lifted already to accept Cas’ reaching fingers. “Breathe, Cas.”

Cas did, and his head swam.

“Good morning, Mr Milton,” said the same nurse as usual.

“It’s Cas,” Dean corrected on his behalf, with a gentle squeeze of Cas’ hand.

Cas smiled weakly.

“Who’s this handsome young man?” the nurse asked. Dean stepped forward to offer her his other hand.

“Dean Winchester. I’m an EMT here. Cas is my partner.” He grinned, dazzling.

The nurse blinked, obviously taken aback. “Castiel! You never told me you had a boyfriend,” she chastised.

Cas smiled again, a little sourly. “When I see you I’m normally a little… distracted.”

“Right. Okay. The doctor will be here in a moment; would you like to hop up onto the table?”

“Not at all,” Cas mumbled, but he sat down on the black plastic-coated foam, the green paper pulled over the middle of it rustling underneath him. He let go of Dean’s hand and lay down on his side, knees horizontal to his hips, and closed his eyes.

“You want to take a seat, Dean?” the nurse offered. Cas heard the chair legs scrape. He could feel his pulse in his throat. “Deep breaths, Castiel,” she prompted. He obeyed, drawing a long, shuddery breath.

“Dean?”

“I’m right here.”

“You want him to hold your hand?”

Cas’ hands were clasped over his heart. “No,” he managed.

“Okay. Try to relax a little.”

Cas drew another trembling gasp.

“Good, good. Okay. Cold antiseptics now, alright?” Coolness on the small of his back. “I know I’ve said this before, but these are such gorgeous tattoos you have, Castiel.”

He meant to tell her thank you, but all that came out of him was a strangled squeak. A hand on his hip steadied him. “Just a bit of pressure, and a pinch, Cas. Deep breaths, for me.” He braced himself, clenching his jaw, and he felt the needle disappearing into him. “Deep breath,” the nurse reminded him. Cas breathed in, in, in. “Try to relax.”

“I can’t!” he spat. In, in. He could feel the hand on his hip trying to hold him steady. Another brushed the side of his jaw.

“I’m here,” Dean promised. The breath gushed out of Cas and he opened his eyes. Dean was right there, crouching next to the table so their eyes were level. “Hold my hand.” Cas did, squeezing Dean’s palm until his knuckles went white. Dean didn’t seem to mind. his smile stayed steady. He smoothed the back of Cas’ hand with his thumb. The needle inched further into him and his breath caught again, nausea radiating out from the needle, all the way down to his toes. He could feel his hand getting clammy in Dean’s.

“Nice and still,” the nurse prompted.

“Mmph,” Cas complained.

“Sh, baby,” Dean whispered. “I’m here.”

“Fuck, it hurts.” Cas’ voice sounded different, like he was having to force out his words. He kind of was. Dean clutched his hand tight and Cas was extremely glad. Without it, he’d be floating off somewhere with the pain. But Dean was keeping him right there.

“I know,” he soothed. With his free hand, Dean swept Cas’ sweaty fringe from his forehead, giving a welcome wash of cool air against his skin.

“Almost done now.”

“Okay,” Cas croaked.

“I’m with you,” Dean assured him. Cas nodded and closed his eyes again.

They pulled out the needle slowly, carefully, but Cas’ stomach still flipped. “I’m gonna,” he managed, before he threw up. He expected it to hit the ground but Dean had been holding a cardboard bowl and caught it all neatly.

“Keep still,” the nurse reminded Cas. Dean handed her the sick. “You need more bowls?”

“I think I’m good,” Cas mumbled dejectedly. His whole body was throbbing with exhaustion. “I’m tired.”

“Well, now’s a good time to catch up on sleep,” the nurse pointed out. “You probably know the drill, because you’re an EMT?” she said to Dean.

“Yeah. Still for a couple of hours.”

“How you going to occupy yourself?”

“I brought a book.”

Cas’ eyes were already closed.

“I hope you’re good to him,” the nurse said as she was leaving.

“Me too,” Dean replied.

And then Cas was asleep.


	31. Raising the Stakes

“I’ve invited Sam tomorrow,” Cas called into the bathroom as Dean was brushing his teeth.

“What?!” Dean spat out with his toothpaste.

“For Christmas dinner.”

“Why the hell’d you do that?”

Cas appeared in the doorway. “I thought Christmas was supposed to be a family thing,” he shrugged. “I can uninvited him?”

“No, that’d be mean.”

“But just straight up not inviting him, that’s fine?” Cas quizzically raised an eyebrow.

Dean shrugged. “He never expected to be doing anything.”

Cas huffed. “Well, we are. And he’s coming for dinner.”

“What are we going to feed him?”

Cas blinked. “Um. Christmas food?”

“Oh yeah? And what’s that, Einstein?”

“Turkey…?”

Dean groaned. “Don’t tell me we have to go grocery shopping on Christmas Eve.”

“Is that not what you do?”

Dean sighed. “No, Cas. It’s not ‘what you do’.”

“But it’s Christmas tomorrow. Won’t everyone be all excited and singing in the store and stuff?”

Dean snorted. “Cas. We’re not in _the Muppet’s Christmas Carol_.”

“You can say that again, Scrooge. I didn't think they were filled with Christmas cheer, anyway. Isn't that sort of the point?”

“Oh, whatever. Grocery stores on Christmas Eve are mayhem. Everyone’s freaking out in case they’ve run out of ham or cranberries.”

“Why didn’t you say something sooner?”

“Didn’t think about it.”

“So, what? You expected the guy on morphine who can’t drive anyway to do the shopping?” Cas laughed.

“Hey. I said I wasn’t thinking.”

It was bad enough trying to find a parking space. They’d had to drive all the way out of the city just to get a place with a spot close enough to the store for Cas to reasonably manage the walk and not be completely out of it by the time they even got to the door. And then there were the lines, oh Christ. The store was playing Christmas music loud enough to drown out jet engines and it still didn’t cover the chattering complaints of the people standing hurried and harried in half-mile queues, their carts overflowing with battered boxes of pie and pudding and enough trimmings for several ostriches. Dean turned to give Cas a look that was half accusatory and half sympathetic, but Cas’ eyes were wide and he was grinning as he looked around. Dean rolled his eyes. It was better than him being miserable, he supposed.

“What first?” Dean yelled over the chorus of _I Wish It Could Be Christmas Everyday._ Cas pulled a cart out from the depleted pen of them by the door, and pushed a second one towards Dean. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Cas shook his head. “Last chance I’ve got, I figure I should pull out all the shots,” he shrugged. His words put a lump in Dean’s throat too big to speak past, so he was glad that Cas spotted something shiny and distracting on the shelf in front of him. A light up reindeer was promptly dropped into Dean’s cart. Before he could protest, Cas dazzled him, rosy-cheeked with a glorious smile, befitting of his angelic name and the wings on his back. He half walked, half danced, pointing at things and grabbing at them and prodding them when he could.

They worked their way up the aisles slowly, Cas stopping every six feet or so and examining something or other from the shelf or else one of the fridges. He didn’t keep everything, but he did keep most. Crackers, food, tinsel, board games, alcohol, juice, eight different kinds of cake, three selections of biscuits, and on and on.

Cas seemed to be tiring out. He leaned on his cart with his elbows, humming a tune as they walked along. He started ordering Dean about in lieu of prancing about himself. Dean didn’t mind. The look on Cas’ face whenever Dean handed him something new was worth it every time. Chocolate figurines of Santa Claus to hang on the tree. Wine glasses with argyle print around the rim.

“Did you get Sam a present?”

“I uh. We don’t normally…”

“You think he’d like this?” Cas handed Dean a hundred dollar bottle of wine.

“Uh. Cas. That’s a lot of money.”

Cas inspected the label. “Not that much.”

Dean scoffed. “Man, you’re better off than I thought.”

“Still feel like you ought to be paying for things?” Cas asked tiredly, with a lazy smile. “Such a gentlemanly belle.”

“Why can’t I be a southern gentleman?” Dean grumbled.

“You tell me.”

“Ugh. You’re impossible.”

“Nope,” Cas sighed. “Just improbable.” He bent over to pluck another bottle of wine from the shelf and gratuitously arched his back. He peered over his shoulder back at Dean and batted his eyelashes.

“Rude,” Dean muttered dismissively, but any sharpness in his tone was dispelled by his smirk.

“Rock star,” Cas countered with a grin. Dean closed the space between them and pinched his ass. Cas yelped. “Hey! Don’t.”

“Better behave yourself, then,” Dean murmured into Cas’ ear.

“Oh my, I’m all aflutter,” Cas mocked, looking up at Dean through his eyelashes. Without warning he surged forwards and kissed Dean full on the mouth. Dean had no choice but to surrender to it, his hands limply at his sides whilst Cas’ fingers raked over his scalp. Cas sucked Dean’s bottom lip into his mouth and nipped it firmly with his teeth. Dean groaned obscenely and Cas forced his leg between Dean’s knees. Uselessly, Dean drew his hands to the center of Cas’ chest, meaning to try and push him away, but all he did was smooth his palms over the contours of Cas’ muscles, barely there, only suggested now, but so warm, still, through all the layers of cotton.

Cas broke them apart and laughed. An old woman holding a huge bottle of Pinot Grigio shook her head disapprovingly. “Practicing first aid,” Cas said, without missing a beat. Dean felt his jaw drop at the same moment the old woman’s did, and he was pretty sure they went the exact same shade of scarlet. Cas, on the other hand, was beaming. “Does that count as good behavior?” he asked Dean coyly.

“You know what? I can’t even tell,” Dean huffed.

“Ah. You enjoyed it,” Cas concluded with a wink. “I didn’t know you had a voyeurism kink.”

“Not with old ladies!”

“Young ladies? Old _laddies_?”

“Cas! You’re awful!” Dean laughed.

“Nawh, you’re just saying that.” Cas started inspecting the shelves again. “Oh! This one’s got eight kinds of grape in it. Is that supposed to be good or bad?”

“Fuck if I know.”

“Should I be adding voyeurism to my list?”

“What list?” Dean hedged.

“You know. _The_ list.” Cas looked nervous now, as though worried Dean would have forgotten.

He almost had. But then he gulped and nodded. “Wait. There’s kinks on the list?”

Cas’ eyes flashed with dark excitement. “What are you hoping for?”

Dean involuntarily bit his lip.

“Oh my, there’s something specific Dean’s got on _his_ list, I see.”

“Shut up,” Dean grumbled.

“Come on. We can play dying wishes snap,” Cas offered brightly.

“That’s horrible.”

Cas pouted. “It’s not.”

“It is. What if I can’t do everything on your list?”

Cas cocked his head to the side. “You don’t want to know?”

Dean’s stomach flipped. He did, but it frightened him. He shrugged.

“You’re just going to find it anyway, after I die,” Cas pointed out.

Dean winced. “I won’t read it.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t want to.”

Cas looked deeply troubled by this. He folded his arms across his chest. “Dean. I was only messing with you. I don’t want you to get upset.”

“I’m not upset,” Dean replied miserably. He groaned at how unconvincing he sounded.

“Do you really not want to read it?”

“I don’t know.”

Cas’ eyes were wide, hopeful, but confused. “You haven’t let me down, you know.”

Dean blinked, stunned. “What?”

“Never once have you let me down. You’re everything to me. You’ve given me everything,” Cas said, simply, as though it was an easy thing to say. As though that were the kind of thing people usually said to each other in the wine section of grocery stores. And then, still as though it was barely anything at all, Cas turned and plucked another bottle of wine from the shelf and set it into his cart. As he did this, he met Dean’s gaze, and smiled softly, with this look in his eye that just so completely and fully articulated everything that Dean had been trying to muster the will to say to him.

The floor fell out from underneath them, it felt like. Only Cas didn’t notice. Dean realized that what he wanted more than anything in the world was to spend the rest of his life with the man in front of him. The feeling was immense. It dwarfed him. For a moment, Dean could only blink and try to smile, because whilst this momentous feeling was wonderful and brought a clarity to him that he’d been searching for his entire life, it was also hideously sad. Because of course, Dean only had the rest of Cas’ life to spend with him, and they had no idea how short that was going to be.

By the time they got to the checkouts, both carts were full. Cas was practically jumping with excitement, but the flush of color that had brightened his features when they’d first arrived had trickled away. When they were close enough to start lining their things onto the conveyor belt beside the cashier, Cas leaned against the stacks of boxes and waited for Dean to pass him things that he could arrange neatly. They had so much stuff, however, that the conveyor was full and one of them needed to start packing bags before the other had finished loading the stuff to be scanned.

“I got it,” Cas insisted, as he lowered the first bag into the cart. He flashed Dean a smile, but it didn’t meet his eyes. He looked positively pasty. Dean tried to hurry, but there was only so much space for him to jam stuff on at once.

“Cas,” Dean protested as he lifted another bag.

“I said I got it, didn’t I?” he challenged. This time he didn’t even bother smiling.

Dean loaded the last few items – a box of chocolates, a ginger-bread-man shaped tin of biscuits, and bottle of whiskey in the shape of a turkey – and rushed to the other side of the cashier to cut in before Cas could try and lift the next one. Cas gave an exasperated sigh, but otherwise didn’t fight Dean on it. When the next bad was full, Cas grabbed it and put it in the cart with a snigger.

“Don’t tell me how much it cost,” Cas told the cashier, taking out his cards.

“Sir?”

“Here’s twenty dollars. I don’t want to know how much it cost.” He handed the cashier the bill. She raised her eyebrows and plucked it from his fingers. He smiled sourly. “Merry Christmas.”

“Happy Hanukah,” she countered, and put the twenty in her breast pocket. She processed the payment without telling him the cost, though.

They pushed their carts into the snowy parking lot. Half way to the car, Cas staggered to a halt. A woman in an ugly SUV pressed her horn at him. He was keeling forwards over the handles of the cart, but it was skidding forwards. Dean abandoned his own, just off the narrow road the woman in the SUV was trying to drive down. He ran to Cas and caught him before his knees touched the ground.

“I’m fine,” he insisted as Dean’s arms wound around his waist. The horn blurted again.

“Alright!” Dean yelled. “If you’re so _fine,_ why don’t we make it to the sidewalk?”

Cas peered up at Dean. His skin had gone grey. “I just need a minute.” His eyes rolled back and he clattered to the floor. Dean shoved the cart next to the other one and slipped an arm behind Cas’ knees. The lady in the SUV beeped again and Dean shot her a murderous glare.

“Cas, baby?” Dean shimmied back off the road with Cas cradled against his chest. He sat down on the side walk and the SUV hurried past without a care in the world. Dean smoothed his hands over Cas’ face. His lips used to be so pink and full. Now they were as white as the moon. His body was completely slack. Completely… Dean tried not to think of the word lifeless. The words he’d spoken to Sam days earlier rattled around his head. _He doesn’t know how long he’s got. He doesn’t know how long he’s got._ “Not like this,” Dean whispered. “Please, not like this.”

“Mister!” Dean looked up. The cashier girl was running out of the store towards them. “He having a fit or something?”

“No, he-”

“Dean?” Cas rasped. His eyes fluttered open.

“Oh thank god,” Dean gasped and kissed his chilly lips. “Don’t you ever do that to me again.”

“Okay,” Cas growled softly. His eyes fluttered closed again.

“Is he alright? Should I call an ambulance?” the cashier asked.

“I’m fine,” he wheezed.

Dean kissed Cas’ forehead. “You idiot,” he muttered. “Don’t worry about it. Thanks,” he told the girl with a nod. She backed away hesitantly. Dean looked back down at Cas. “Do you need to go to the hospital?”

“No. I just got a little… dizzy.” He screwed up his face. “Just tried to do too much.”

“I know, baby.” Dean cradled him close. Cas averted Dean’s gaze. He fiddled with the zipper on his coat. “Come on. Let’s get you home.”

“I’m not going to bed,” Cas insisted weakly. “I want mulled wine.”

Dean laughed a single note and then his throat sort of spasmed and a strange noise came out of him, a little bit like a laugh, but much sadder. Cas peered up at him. “Alright. Anything you want,” Dean promised.

Cas bit his lip. “Anything?”

Dean laughed for real that time, even if there were tears in his eyes. “Within reason. Can you stand?”

Cas considered that for a moment and tried to sit up. One of his hands flew to his head.

“No,” Dean answered for him, and got to his feet with a sigh, still holding Cas firmly to his body.

“Dean,” Cas complained, but he didn’t struggle. Dean set him on his feet next to the car but kept an arm around his waist whilst he yanked open the door. “The stuff…” he said, gesturing weakly.

“Ah yes. Christmas,” Dean sighed. “I’ll take care of it. You sit tight.”

Cas pursed his lips but clambered into the passenger seat. Dean closed the door and retrieved their carts. Loading the car didn’t take as long as he’d anticipated. He grabbed the box of chocolates from the last bag he loaded and handed them to Cas. “No room in the trunk?”

“Eat them, you’ll feel better.”

Cas groaned. “I’m anaemic; I’ve not been cornered by a dementor.”

“Since when do you watch the Harry Potter movies?”

“Since I spent six weeks straight in bed,” Cas snapped.

Dean gulped. He started the engine.

“Fuck. I’m sorry.” Cas squeezed his eyes shut. “I just. I hate this. There’s things I want to do and I just…” he chuckled sadly. “I just can’t.”

“Let me help you.”

“I don’t want to need help.” Cas still had his eyes shut. He covered his face with his hands, too. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have put this on you.”

“What?”

“Christmas.”

Dean scoffed. “Cas, c’mon. Lighten up.”

Cas revealed one bright eye.

“I’ve got to drop you back at your place, and then there’s something I need to get.”

Cas dropped his hands. “What?”

Dean grinned. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Cas ducked his head, fluttering his eyelashes in the hopes Dean would confess. All he did was shove him gently in the side. “Ugh, fine,” Cas sighed, leaning dramatically against the window. “So, if you’re abandoning me to do all the cooking myself…?”

“What?” Dean laughed. “What do you want?” Cas shrugged and put another chocolate into his mouth. He held it between his lips, batting his eyes. “Fuck, Cas,” Dean sighed, turning back to the road. “You don’t need to ask for that.”

“Polite, though,” Cas sighed back, settling against his head rest and closing his eyes. “Wake me up when we get to my place,” he yawned.

Dean shook his head, stealing a glance over at him. Still smiling, slightly, but his face was beginning to relax into sleep. At least he was letting himself sleep, Dean thought. Thank god he was finally cutting himself a break.

Holding his hand through that lumbar puncture, seeing the fear and pain in his eyes… Dean had seen Cas sick before, be it a long time ago, but that was different. Hooked up to IVs and dialysis, unconscious with a tube down his throat; that had all be hard to see. Cas curled like a kitten in his own blood, Cas unable to stand, legs giving out beneath him, Cas screaming because it hurt; that was worse. Dean thought that he was prepared for whatever Cas' treatment or illness would present.

He had been wrong, of course. The acuteness of it, the vulnerability of him, curled and practically naked on the table, sweat dripping off his forehead, jaw clenched. He still had a yellowing bruise on his hip, weeks old now, from his bone marrow aspiration. The point of his wing just grazed the edge of the bruise, like the black edges of the feathers were reaching for it, to steal the colors for themselves.

Dean parked the Impala outside the front of Cas’ building. Still sleeping, his brows had begun to knit together in a slight frown, like something was concerning him just a little. Dean could see his pulse jumping in his throat, veins showing through his pale skin, faint bluish green, like there were whole rivers caught inside of him. Dean reached over and brushed his fingers across them. Cas squirmed, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down.

“Mm. Five minutes,” he mumbled, tossing his head.

“Cassie,” Dean crooned, leaning closer. He traced the edge of Cas’ jaw.

“No,” Cas groaned. “I’m tired.”

Dean leaned over and kissed the point where Cas’ jaw met his neck. “Come on, baby.” He smoothed his over hand over Cas’ chest, fingers catching on the zipper of his coat. He kissed along from Cas’ ear to the corner of his mouth, then stopped. Cas opened his eyes, smiling. “Hey.”

“Hey you.” Cas dipped forward and caught Dean’s mouth with his own. Cas’ tongue flicked between Dean’s lips and he groaned, fingers curling a fistful of Cas’ jacket, pulling him closer and deeper into the kiss. “Oh, Dean,” he moaned, nipping at Dean’s bottom lip.

Dean chuckled and pulled away, to much protesting. “Come on, I’ll put some stuff in the oven and you can sleep on the couch until I get back.”

Cas pouted. “Do you have to go?”

“I’ll be an hour, max,” Dean promised, climbing out of the car. Cas followed a moment later. Dean gave Cas the light up reindeer, and took two of the heavy shopping bags for himself. Neither of them acknowledged it, but when they got up to Cas’ apartment, Cas set the reindeer on the table and slumped onto the couch. They didn’t meet each other’s gaze, but Dean brought the rest of the shopping up alone, and Cas didn’t breathe a word against it. Dean kissed his forehead.

“An hour max,” he promised again, and then hurried out the door before Cas could convince him otherwise.

Dean climbed back into the car. He didn’t have a solid plan as to what he was going to do. Whatever it was, he had an hour. He figured he could afford a ten-minute drive, if that, so that would leave him with forty minutes to do… whatever. Shit. He drummed his hands on the steering wheel. He didn’t just have to make this good. He had to make it the _best._


	32. Technicality

It was eleven thirty and Cas was snoring softly like a kitten, curled against Dean’s side. Sam had slinked out of the apartment an hour ago, not long after Cas had nodded off. Dean was foggy with soft, slight drunkenness, his fingers running up and down Cas’ forearm, which was strewn carelessly over his lap. There were open boxes of chocolates and sweets everywhere. Cas’ light up reindeer was sat on top of the piano, still proud despite the broken antler he was sporting following Dean and Sam’s pre-dinner wrapping-paper football.

The air was rich with the smell of food. The record Cas had put on before he fell asleep – Frank Sinatra’s Christmas album – had long since finished, and the needle was crackling and fuzzing against the smooth, un-textured vinyl at the middle. The sound was soft and comforting, the perfect accompaniment to the soft tufts of snow Dean was watching float down on the mushy, half-frozen river, and the gentle warmth of Cas, sleeping next to him.

The tranquility was shattered by a loud _bring_ ing from Cas’ pocket. He sat bolt upright, whipping out his phone and silencing it immediately. His eyes were shot red around the blue. His hair was even more of a mess than usual.

“What was that?” Dean asked.

Cas sighed. “Pills,” he explained, and flopped down against the sofa. He groaned and closed his eyes.

“I’ll get them.”

“I can manage.”

Dean put a hand on the middle of Cas’ chest. “I said I’d get them, alright?”

Cas opened one eye. “Jeez.”

In the kitchen, Dean grabbed Cas’ box of pills and ran him a glass of water. He stopped in the doorway and felt his back pocket for the small, black box he’d had nestled in there since he’d snuck out to the car when he saw Sammy back off to the hotel.

“There’s nothing to it,” he mumbled to himself, forcing his eyes open and striding back into the living room. He handed Cas his things, but didn’t sit back down on the couch. Cas took his pills two by two, eying Dean with increasing suspicion.

“What’s with you?”

Dean shrugged.

“Fuck off. You’re all antsy. What’s going on?”

Dean cupped his own elbows and looked at the carpet, avoiding Cas’ frown. Cas sat forward on the couch, watching Dean closely, waiting for what would come next. His heart was pounding hard and fast, as though it had swelled so large it filled the entirety of his body. Dean took a deep breath and looked up at the ceiling. He sank to his knees.

“What are you…?” Cas sat up. Dean had his eyes pressed tightly shut. “Are you alright?”

“Damn it Cas, would you shut up a sec?”

Cas cocked his head to the side. “Sorry.”

“Shush.” Dean hissed. He gulped; Cas watched his Adam’s apple bob up and down. Dean lowered his head and opened his eyes. Cas leaned forward a little so they were completely on a level. Dean pressed something into Cas’ lap.

Cas looked down and gingerly lifted the small black box. “What?”

“Jesus. Open it, would you?” Dean snapped impatiently.

Cas quirked an eyebrow and pulled back the top of the box. Inside was a thin gold band, with a tiny figure etched into it. Cas peered closer. It was an angel. “Oh, Dean. It’s…” he shook his head.

“No?” Dean asked, his voice an octave higher than usual.

“No, what?” Cas asked, stroking the band.

“You don’t want to?”

Cas’ fingers froze. He looked back up at Dean, who had leaned in even closer than before. “Dean, what is this?”

Dean shook his head. “It. I. It’s stupid,” he muttered, sinking back onto his heels.

Cas sighed. He slumped forwards to join Dean on the ground. He took the ring out of the box, lifted Dean’s hand, and pressed it into his palm. “You haven’t asked.”

Dean stared at the ring. “What?”

“You have to ask.”

Dean blinked at Cas, and cleared his throat. “Cas. You, uh. You want to get married?”

Cas laughed and leaned against the couch. “Oh god, Dean. I love you.”

Dean was smiling tentatively. “Yeah? Does that mean you want to?”

Cas reached for him and pulled him down by the collar of his shirt. “Yes, you idiot. That’s what it means.”


	33. Show Me Your Love

Every action has an equal and opposite reaction. This simplicity forms the way human beings think. It’s why so many people believe in karma, or at least something very like it. What goes around, comes around.

Cas was standing in the bathroom. It was midnight, the day after Boxing Day. He’d been bleeding for an hour. It wasn’t going to stop. If he didn’t get help he was going to die, slumped on the ground next to the bath, holding a towel to his face, naked. The past few days had been blissful. Those moments holding Dean, kissing him, fucking him. They had to come at a price.

For twenty minutes he’d been debating what the best course of action was. He could let it happen in this relatively quick, quiet way, and in the morning Dean would stumble in, still covered in bite marks from their desperate sex, and find him there, curled like a sleeping kitten in a puddle of his own blood. A fair trade-off for dying in his sleep, completely unaware of what was happening, would be to die during Dean’s sleep. To spare him the agony of watching him go, drawn out and rasping, after days of being unable to speak or even move, pissing, puking, crumbling in on himself. Even though Cas was beginning to feel a little dizzy now despite sitting down, the lucidity of this potential death was appealing. He could, if he wanted, sing to himself. He liked that it could be the last thing he did. He liked that he was having agency in this. He liked that he could give himself control where it had seemed for so long he would have none.

The alternative was calling for help. He would have to wake Dean. It was one thing to die quietly alone in the next room, but another entirely to sneak off to hospital and potentially die there, with your lover still asleep and revelling in post-coital dreamland in your very own bed. In the hospital, they’d clean off the blood and they’d give him pain killers that would make everything a little easier, but they’d make a mess of the rest of him, trying to get more blood into him, burning the inside of his nose to try and stem the flow. He didn’t want his thoughts to be fuzzier than they had to be.

Of course, there was a chance that if he called for help, he wouldn’t die right away. He’d make it through the night and maybe the next one and possibly the one after that. A slow, undignified decline in a hospital bed, too out of it to notice, the dregs of his family crowding him in and stealing any precious moments he might have left with Dean.

Oh, Dean. Sleeping beauty. Light of Cas’ life. Cas would happily spill blood for him. Maybe if he called for help, Dean could hold him right there on the floor until it was over. He could be warm and safe and loved. And Dean could say goodbye. That might be nice. It would be good for him, Cas thought, to get to say goodbye.

Ludicrously, Cas remembered Dean cradling him against his chest, rushing him to the emergency room. He remembered Dean sitting there when he opened his eyes again, holding his hand, whispering little lovely things to keep him through the night. And the next night. And the night after that. Perhaps having control wasn’t worth as much as Cas had been thinking, if it meant that he could have Dean, and Dean could have him, for just a little while longer. How many evenings could he borrow from the universe if he went to the hospital?

Cas flickered his eyes closed and gripped the edge of the bath tightly so he could heave himself to his feet. He emerged from the bathroom slowly. Dean was spread lavishly across the bed, his chest bare and exposed by the thrown- back silk sheets. Cas touched Dean’s cheek. “Dean,” he croaked.

Dean opened his eyes, only a fraction at first but then almost too wide. “Cas? What’s going on? You’re bleeding?”

“It’s alright,” Cas said calmly. He lowered the towel to smile. “I need to go to the hospital.”

“I’ll drive you,” Dean answered, immediately kicking off the sheets and rummaging across the floor to find his jeans. Cas sat patiently, watching him rush with a small smile on his face. Dean froze up when he finally noticed, hands still gripping the t-shirt he’d just ripped over his head. “Is this it?” he asked. His voice was small and soft but he didn’t sound afraid.

“I don’t know.”

Dean squeezed his eyes shut and nodded. “Okay.” He strode over to Cas and gestured, offering to pick him up. Cas let himself be carried, resting his bloody face against Dean’s warm shoulder, separated from his glorious skin by less than a millimetre of cotton. He couldn’t believe, all of a sudden, that he’d considered bleeding out on the bathroom floor. Just this little moment of contact, the rhythm marked out by the steady throb of Dean’s heart, was worth the world.

Cas didn’t notice the car ride, or the trip from the door of the impala to and into the emergency room. He flickered back for a moment when he heard Dean say his full name.

“And you’re his brother?” the doctor asked Dean.

“Boyfriend,” Dean corrected smoothly.

“Fiancé.” Cas whispered.

“What?” Dean asked, leaning close.

“Fiancé.”

Dean smiled, tears in his eyes. “We’re engaged.” Cas didn’t look like he was very much with it at all. His nose had stopped bleeding. The doctor said it had probably stopped a while before, but he’d already lost a dangerous amount of blood. His eyes were half open, lips parted as he rasped unevenly for air. Dean felt strangely resolute.

“When’s the big day?” the doctor asked, after a moment of doubt and dread had darkened her features.

“Soon,” Dean replied simply, squeezing Cas’ hand. “I’m still here,” he promised. “I won’t let you fall.”

“I’d fall all the way to hell for you,” Cas barely managed to say, his voice only just audible.

 

Cas was drifting. It was quiet in the place he ended up. He thought maybe he could hear the sea. Dean was close by, Cas knew, but he wasn’t sure how exactly he knew that. He couldn’t see him or hear him, or even feel him touching his skin. But there was warmth there, and it was Dean. He didn’t question it. It seemed stupid to.

 

He woke up and it was dark. He blinked. His eyes hurt like they were new. For a moment he was displaced. The sheets felt wrong against his skin. In slow waves it came back to him.

“You’re awake.”

Cas turned to Balthazar. He was closing the book in his lap. He watched Cas with a caution people normally reserve for wild animals. “I want ice cream,” Cas said. His throat hurt when he talked.

Baz laughed. “Come back fighting, I see.”

“Did you expect anything less?”

The look on Baz’ face suggested that yes, he had. He hadn’t expected Cas to come back at all.

“Where’s Dean?”

Baz took a deep breath. “I sent him home to get some sleep. Poor guy’s been sat here all week waiting for something to change.”

“All week?”

Baz nodded. “Happy New Year.”

“I made it,” Cas replied with a smile.

Baz’ expression twisted and he looked away. “I’ll go and see about ice cream.”

“Will you call him?”

Baz nodded. “Of course.” And then he left the room.

Cas must have fallen asleep because he cracked awake again when Baz opened the door. He was holding a chocolate ice-pop, with a tissue wrapped around the stick. “Can you hold it?”

Cas lifted his hand uncertainly and reached to take it. The cold sugariness was beautiful in his mouth, but swallowing was hard. He sighed. “I want to go home.”

Baz bit his lip. “Cas…”

“This isn’t how I want to go.”

Baz looked at the floor. “I know.”

Cas’ body felt old and used and tired. He couldn’t believe that he’d slept through an entire week. He was exhausted. “Balthazar.” Baz looked up, lips pursed, eyes swimming. “I miss you.”

Balthazar’s expression cracked. He shook his head minutely. “Cas.”

“I hope you find someone who loves you the right way.”

“Oh god, Cas,” Balthazar mumbled. Cas stretched his wiry arm towards him and took his hand. Balthazar shuffled closer, until he was resting his head on Cas’ pillow, face against his hair. “I love you so much.”

Cas wrapped his arms around him, carefully not to get the sticky ice cream remnants on his clothes. “I love you too, just not the way you needed.”

Balthazar clutched the blankets over Cas’ lap and howled, the sound muffled into near silence by the pillow and Cas’ neck.

 

Home. Cas thought that’s where he was for a moment, but no. It was just that Dean was there, stroking his hair slowly and gently, fingers warming Cas’ scalp. He was cold, he realised, but not the kind of cold you can fix with blankets and radiators and hot cups of coffee. “You’re awake,” Dean says softly.

“Mm,” Cas agreed. “You’re back.”

“I’m sorry you woke when I was gone.”

“The love was still here.”

Dean’s fingers slowed their rhythm and slipped down Cas’ jaw. “It was?”

“Always.”

Dean kissed Cas’ earlobe. “I’m glad. Keep it with you.”

Cas thought about that, about that love deep inside him. He knew other things were falling away, and fast. When he was a kid he and Gabe used to ride their bikes in the street. One time he flew over the handle bars and grazed his forehead on the road. It bled and bled and bled.

“I want to go home.”

Dean pulled away. Cas ached with absence. “Are you sure?” His tone was guarded, but he didn’t sound like he was going to argue. He looked glorious, with the winter sun caught in his hair. Cas wanted to see him shirtless and in the sea. He wanted him on picnic blankets in the hills. He wanted him to sneeze because of the pollen, for it to rain and ruin the sandwiches. To have to run down the hills to the car and climb inside and go to a crappy interstate diner and eat desserts with a week’s worth of calories in each portion.

“I’m tired.”

Dean nodded as though he understood. Maybe he did.

“I feel like I won’t die if I’m at home.”

Dean smiled and stroked Cas’ hair again. “That’d be nice.”

“Mm. We could go out for dinner. We can move upstate, or at least out of Chicago. Out of the city. Where our kids can go to good schools.”

“Kids?”

“Mary Evangeline and Johan Sebastian.”

Dean laughed. “Jesus. They’d get picked on.”

“No. They’d be far too beautiful. And genius’, too.”

“Of course. They come from good stock.”

 

Cas couldn’t stand to pull his jeans over his hips. They were far too big for him now, anyway. He sat in a wheelchair without protest and let Dean push him out to the car. A few unsteady moments on his feet, and he was home, in bed, and Dean was cradling him close. “Dean,” he whispered. “I want you.”

“What?”

Cas’ bony hands trailed down Dean’s chest. “I want you,” he said again.

Dean kissed Cas gently for a few moments, then stopped. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t.”

Dean held Cas’ gaze for a moment, green eyes boring into blue. “You’re beautiful. So fucking beautiful.” He kissed his way down Cas’ chest and gently pulled down his pyjamas. Cas arched a little into the pillows, Dean’s breath hot against his skin. He was surprised to find his body responding, blood rushing around him again, a new, small heat building in his gut. He gasped. Dean pulled back. “You alright?”

“Don’t stop,” Cas begged.

“Stop?” Dean asked, puzzled. “I didn’t even touch you.”

Cas closed his eyes, feeling his heart throbbing, his lungs expanding, Dean’s breath against him. He was dying, dying, dying. But he was still alive. He had just enough strength to buck his hips as Dean’s fingers closed around him. He moaned shamefully. Waves of warmth rocked through him, right to his fingertips. He could feel life in every part of himself again. He had a sense that he was burning the candle at both ends, that allowing himself to feel this good again would mean he was speeding up the process of his own death but he didn’t care, god, he didn’t care.

Just before he came, his eyes snapped open. He was teetering on the edge of orgasm, fingers clutching the bedsheets as tightly as he could manage. He wondered if that’s what it was going to feel like, tension building deep inside of him, building to a sudden release.

“I love you, I love you, I love you,” Cas chanted with the last of his energy. Spent and useless, he lay panting against the pillows, his arms and legs spread across the bed. Dean was kneeling beside him, lips slightly rouged by friction, cheeks flushed, hair slightly, but pleasantly ruffled. He wanted to sit up and push Dean down, to kiss the look off his face, pull him around so he was over the edge of the bed and could be fucked, hard. He wanted to lean up slowly and press their moves together gently, moving as one, to feel Dean deep inside of him, gasping and perfect.

Every breath he drew, Cas wheezed. He reached to touch Dean’s blistering chest. “I can’t.” The words bubbled out of him, and then something like a half-colored sob.

“It’s alright.”

“No,” Cas moaned. Dean leaned over him, careful not to put any weight on him.

“Hey, shush, it’s alright. I’m here, I’m here.”

Cas cried, his mind blank and his body numb. The smell of Dean filled his head and wound through his thoughts. At least he could hold him. At least he could hear the sound of his heart in his chest. At least. At least. At least.


	34. With You

Cas woke up and Dean was gone.

He sat up, surprised a little that he still could.

“I’m sorry to wake you,” Baz said gently.

“Wake me?” Cas asked groggily.

“How are you feeling?”

“Like I’m about to die.”

Baz chewed the inside of his cheek. “There’s somewhere you need to be today.”

Cas frowned. “What do you mean?” His mind was trying to race, to work out what it could be that he’d forgotten. He could only think of needles.

“It’s a surprise,” Baz explained with a small smile.

“Oh, nowhere,” Cas sighed. “I just flew.”

By some miracle, Cas found that he could quite comfortably stand up for a few seconds. Baz helped him wash. It was humiliating but Cas was only grateful. Back in Cas’ bedroom, Cas spotted a suit hanging by the window. “Who’s that for?”

“You. Mine’s in the living room.”

“Yours?” Cas asked, puzzled.

Baz laughed. “Come on. We’re going to be late, and Dean will kill me.”

Dean. Of course. Cas hadn’t forgotten, but he was surprised at himself for not holding him right at the front of his mind for so long. His thoughts felt like autumn leaves blowing off a tree. There was no way he could hold onto them.

It took a long time for Cas to get dressed. Baz left him clumsily fumbling with his own tie and returned what felt like seconds later completely ready. “Is it my funeral?”

“Traditionally, you’re dead when your funeral happens.”

“I thought maybe it’d be nice to be there.”

“Yeah?” Baz gently pulled Cas’ hands away and tied the tie for him. “There you go. You look like a right gentleman.” Cas looked down at himself but he couldn’t judge. He could make out the knobbly bones of his knees through the trousers. “Here. Look.” Baz grabbed Cas’ upper arm and held him steadily in front of the mirror.

Cas blinked at his reflection. He was ghostly pale, sure, and he was so thin his jaw looked like it would cut thread if you draped it over it, but the suit fit him almost perfectly. It was dusty charcoal grey, thin pinstripes in a barely lighter shade. The shirt was white, simple, and expensive looking. Baz fastened the sleeves with cuff links.

With laughter and sighs, Balthazar gave Cas a piggy-back-ride down the stairs of his apartment. Baz insisted on wrapping Cas in blankets before opening the front door, and he would have protested if he couldn’t already feel a cold seeping into him. He was shaky, exhausted already. The impala was sitting right by the door. Sam was leaning against the bonnet.

“Where’s Dean?” Cas asked. He was surprised at how tired he sounded.

“Waiting already. He’s probably ground all of his teeth away by now, you’re so late.”

“Sorry. Things can’t be rushed,” Baz said softly, in a way that made Cas suspect that he wasn’t supposed to hear. He was deposited in the back seat of the impala. “Try and get some sleep,” Baz advised, as though Cas could have managed to keep his eyes open for much longer.

 

“Cas, darling,” Baz woke him gently.

Cas’ eyes hurt. “I’m tired,” he protested.

“I know. You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”

“Do what?” Cas asked, croakily.

“Come on. You must have worked it out already.” Baz was pulling Cas upright, helping him turn his body so that his legs were hanging out of the car door. They were parked outside of a fancy hotel. Cas recognised it as the place where the fundraising gala he’d played at not that long ago. Not that long ago at all. Barely more than a month. They had only had such a small amount of time. For a moment Cas was overwhelmed by it. It wasn’t fair. He didn’t want to be dead. He wanted to go on being loved by Dean forever. “Oh, don’t start crying yet. You’re not even inside!” Baz protested with a laugh.

Up, out of the car, climbing some stairs. Cas got to sit down then. Someone pressed something into his hand and he thought it was a glass of water but when he looked it was an oxygen mask. For a moment he was gripped by fear that it was all a trick, that he was going to have to lie down whilst they drilled into his bones again, but then Baz crouched in front of him and guided the mask over his face. “Take it easy for a couple of minutes. I’ll tell Dean what’s going on.”

“Dean,” Cas wheezed. Oh, god. Where the hell was he? Why had he decided to run away again, now? Cas didn’t have time to try and find him. He wished he’d come back.

A hand on his shoulder. “You holding up?” Baz asked, from a different direction.

“Yeah.” Cas lowered the mask. “I’m okay.”

“Right. They’re ready when you’re ready.”

Cas blinked. He didn’t get it. He took Baz’ arm and let himself be pulled to his feet. Baz looped an arm around Cas’ shoulders, taking most, if not all, of his weight. “Can you do this?” Baz asked.

“Yes,” Cas whispered, though he really wasn’t sure.

There were ornately carved mahogany doors. A man in tails opened them wide. The smell of flowers washed out and Cas’ clumsy feet almost toppled him and Balthazar both. There were flowers everywhere, bright spring flowers like a meadow. The smell was divine. Amongst the flowers – pink, white, red, violet, splashes of yellow, huge blossoms of blue – were smiling faces in rows, like garden flowers planted in troughs, all of them were looking at him. He remembered being on stage, the sea of faceless faces beneath him. But this was different. Every face was one that he knew. Friends, acquaintances, family. Dr Moore and her beautiful, smiling daughter. His mother and father. Gabriel. Jimmy. Even Jimmy, with a blonde woman on his arm and a child at his hip.

On the other side of the room, the faces were less familiar. Cas couldn’t think where he knew them from for a moment but it was trickling back. Dean’s friends. Charlie, Jo, Kevin… the red head he’d been with the last time they had been here. Sam was standing at the front of the room, grinning wide. Just ahead of him, his back to the crowd, was Dean. His leg was bobbing up and down, his hands were clasped tightly behind him. Most surprisingly, he was wearing a suit. Oh.

_Oh._

There was music. Dean’s body stiffened and he stopped his anxious twitching. He peered over his shoulder and met Cas’ gaze right away. The room vanished. Dean smiled, wide and unashamed and wonderful. Cas smiled back, holding tight to Balthazar’s arm.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean said softly, taking Cas from Balthazar as soon as he could.

“Hello, Dean,” Cas replied. They both sat down on a small chaise lounge that Cas had failed to spot before. Cas couldn’t take his eyes of Dean. His freckles, his hazel-flecked green eyes, his shock of blonde hair, his soft smile. The expression on his face as he stared right back. Cas almost forgot that he hurt. He almost forgot that he was exhausted.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

“Shall we start?” asked the minister, who was presiding over them.

Cas blinked up at him. “Can we skip the vows and just be married?” There was a low rumble of laughter behind them. “I don’t have a lot of time.”

Dean squeezed Cas’ hands. “I want to say something.”

“Okay.”

Dean ducked his head to took a deep breath. “Castiel Milton, I swear to god that I’ve been in love with you since before I knew you had a second name.” His eyes sparkled. “I will love you for the rest of my life. If I could spend it with you, I would. But this time we’ve had,” Dean’s voice cracked. His sparkling eyes were glistening now. A single diamond teardrop tumbled down his cheek. “Has been a lifetime.”

“Oh Dean,” Cas whispered. He was crying too, he realised now. “I would do anything to stay with you until we’re old and decrepit and can’t remember each other’s names.”

Dean laughed sadly. “I know.”

“To go for walks on the beach together and see the summer and hold your hand and kiss you, to wake up with you for thousands more mornings, to fall asleep next to you for a thousand more nights. It doesn’t matter how long I’d have lived, though. I’d have always asked for longer with you.” Cas felt dizzy. He had to let go of one of Dean’s hands and grip the edge of the chaise lounge for support.

There were sniffles amongst the witnesses, and a few good natured laughs. Cas peered over his shoulder, smiling, and caught Jimmy’s eye, then Gabriel’s. He turned back to Dean. “Did you get rings?” More laughter.

Dean laughed too and reached into his pocket. He placed a gold band in Cas’ up-facing palm. “I’m not that big of an idiot.” They slid the rings onto each other’s fingers.

“Well, I feel I’ve been a little redundant,” the minister remarked softly. “But I now pronounce you lawfully married. You may now kiss.”

Dean brushed his finger along Cas’ jaw. They held eye contact. Dean leaned in, and softly, oh so softly, they kissed. Their friends and family burst into applause.

For a few minutes, people came up and hugged them both and shook their hands. Cas didn’t see them. He watched Dean. “I think I need to lie down,” he admitted after a shamefully short time. Dean nodded gravely. He helped Cas to his feet and they slipped out of a side door. They were in an empty reception area. A sign on the desk said ‘closed’. Dean sat Cas on a very fancy-looking couch.

“I’m sorry. This was a bad idea.”

“No,” Cas whispered, his eyes already closed. “It’s perfect.”

 

Cas dreamed that he was flying. He could hear the sea. Dean was there, holding his hand. He was going to fall soon, but he didn’t mind. It didn’t frighten him. It just was.

 

Cas opened his eyes. It was dark.

“Dean?”

“I’m just over here,” Dean said softly.

Cas was in bed. He was wearing new silk pyjamas. Dean was sitting on the edge of the bed, reading. “Did we get married?”

Dean closed his book and lay down next to Cas on the bed. “Misters Milton-Winchester,” Dean replied, stroking Cas’ cheek.

Cas sighed and closed his eyes.

Everything was disjointed.

Dean got up and after a few moments there was music. Cas felt the bed dip and then Dean’s warm’s arms closed around him. “ _When I fall in love… it will be forever…_ ” Dean sang along quietly. They rocked gently side to side.

There were spaces inside of Cas now, deep, deep inside of him. He knew he was going to fall into them. He was so loved. He had loved so much. He could feel the notebook behind the headboard singing every little desire he’d wrote onto its pages. Things were different now. Smaller.

Open your eyes, Castiel, and you can see Dean again.

Cas did. He was there. He was beautiful. Cas closed his eyes again. He remembered Dean curled on his chest that sunny afternoon. How the moment had stretched on forever and ever. It didn’t matter what happened next. That moment would always exist. All of their moments. Every touch, every kiss, every whispered ‘I love you’. It would still be there when Cas was gone. And Dean would go on. And the world would go on.

There wouldn’t be fanfares. There would be no miracle cure. He and Dean would not get to live happily ever after, or at least not the way fairy tales tell it. In Dean’s arms, surrounded by the warmth and the smell of him. That was happy ever after. That was it.

And that was alright.

Cas took a deep breath. He needed Dean to know, somehow, that it was going to be okay. He knew he wouldn’t be able to explain. He wasn’t sure how to even begin, so he just said “this is it.”

Dean stopped swaying. He leaned down so they were at eye level. “It’s what?”

Cas smiled. “It’s enough.”

“Enough of what?” Dean asked.

Cas shook his head. “Just enough.”


End file.
